


Sirius and Harry Go to White Castle

by spellingmynamewrong



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asian Sirius Black, Desi Harry Potter, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Person of Color Harry Potter, Person of Color Sirius Black, Raising Harry Potter, Sirius Black Never Went to Azkaban, Sirius Black Raises Harry Potter, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), the title makes it sound fluffier than it is i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellingmynamewrong/pseuds/spellingmynamewrong
Summary: In a few months, everything will be fine. Dumbledore will find Peter, because of course he will, and then he’ll let Sirius raise Harry, just as he should. He and Remus will find their way back to each other. They’ll mourn on Halloween and spoil Harry on Christmas and it will be wonderful.Or, on Halloween night of 1981, Sirius Black takes Harry Potter from Godric's Hollow and runs off with him to the other side of the world. Predictably, there are complications.(Also, the White Castle is a metaphor.)
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 221
Kudos: 426
Collections: Made Me Cry





	1. Prologue: A Series of Increasingly Unfortunate Events

**Author's Note:**

> this is a combination of my Longing for more sirius raises harry content, my need for explicit and good representation, and my curiosity about hong kong and beijing in the 1980s. anyway, i hope you enjoy this! the title is a poor spin on the cult classic film _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_.

**London, Britain, November 1981**

Never let it be said that Sirius Black does not have a plan.

Sirius does have plans, actually. Unfortunately, most of them are hastily cobbled together, broad outlines with too many question marks in between. Sirius Black makes plans like some aspiring authors write stories—a strong beginning, a wonderful ending, and not much in the middle. But it’s a plan, still.

So when Sirius makes the wonderful decision to Apparate away with Harry Potter, now apparently the savior of the wizarding world, instead of giving him over to Hagrid after the groundskeeper had reluctantly revealed just _who_ Dumbledore intended to have Harry live with, ignoring Hagrid’s horrified shouts, well. He has a plan. It’s just not a very good one.

He realizes this unfortunate fact less than an hour later, when Harry’s sleeping soundly in a crib he transfigured out of a half-broken chair in Sirius’s decidedly _not_ baby-proof flat. He can’t stay here much longer, he knows, and not just because of the sharp modernist furniture that Harry could easily hit his head on; Dumbledore will come looking for them, probably with the rest of the Order, and then what will happen?

He doesn’t let himself even consider the possibility of Peter showing up at his door instead. He wants, more than anything, to wring his neck, to make him suffer, to kill the little _rat_ , and for one wild moment, he wonders if he still could. Harry won’t wake for a while, after all, and it shouldn’t be too hard to track down Peter, especially as Padfoot, and he’s always been the stronger dueler, could take Peter in a battle any day—but then, like the universe knows what he’s thinking, Harry wakes and begins to cry.

He’s so small, Sirius realizes. He’s never seemed this small, this _alone_ before, and Sirius wonders if he always had been, if it was the force of James and Lily that made him seem so luminous and all-encompassing, but no, that was all Harry, bubbly, wonderful, incandescent Harry. Harry, who now has the weight of the world on his shoulders yet can’t even recite his ABCs. 

If Sirius has his way, Harry won’t have to bear that weight, at least not yet. Harry has never known anything but the shadow of war, the grey cloak of suspicion and terror that hung over every interaction, no matter how small. This war took from Sirius everything he had and stomped on it until all that was left was rubble.

He pictures James and Lily’s faces, so horribly still and blank in death. He pictures James, young and full of life, exuberant before his first Quidditch match. He pictures Lily’s sharp laugh as James turned into Prongs for the first time in front of her, her exclamation of _I knew you didn’t get that nickname by stabbing yourself with a fork, you tosser_. He pictures their once-charming home, blasted to pieces, furniture smashed to smithereens. He swallows hard, willing himself not to scream, or worse, break down in tears. He’ll die before he lets any of that happen to Harry. 

He wracks his brain for places he can take Harry, places where they’ll both be safe. Uncle Alphard’s manor is out; the wards on it aren’t strong enough, and if any Death Eater comes searching for them, it’ll be one of the first places they look. Grimmauld Place he dismisses the moment after it comes to his mind; seeing as Walburga Black’s name hasn’t appeared in the obituary section recently, he assumes that she must still be alive, and growing madder by the day at that. Alphard’s French chateau, though, might be safe—it’s remote enough, and if Sirius remembers correctly, warded up to the gills. He hopes, after five years of minimal upkeep, that it’s still habitable. 

“Up for an adventure, Harry?” He picks Harry up, spinning him around in the air like he used to (before the prophecy, before the Fidelius, before everything went to shit), and Harry burbles happily, letting out a shout that might be “more!” or “milk!” The first makes more sense, probably. 

He spends the next few minutes packing, shoving everything he can fit from his shitty flat into a suitcase with a hastily cast Extension Charm on it. He won’t be sorry to leave it. The flat was never supposed to be permanent anyway; he’d bought it after a particularly horrible argument with Remus, the last horrible argument, filled it with every type of furniture Remus would hate, because Sirius has never known how to let a grudge go.

He’d hoped, even on the days when he looked at Remus from across the room and thought _spy, liar, traitor_ , that when the war ended, he and Remus would move in together again. They would live in a charming cottage in the middle of Wales, because Remus was Welsh up to his bones even when he didn’t like to admit it, and there would be sodding peonies blooming everywhere and he would kiss his Moony boneless when he worked too late into the night, and James and Lily and Peter would visit on weekends and it would be wonderful, so wonderful. 

Before he leaves, he writes a short letter to Dumbledore and sends it off with his owl—one long enough that he won’t send the Aurors after him, at least not immediately, and short enough that the headmaster won’t be able to find Harry, at least not for a while. He has no delusions that Dumbledore won’t find them eventually, but he can try his damnedest to stall him for as long as he can. 

_Dumbledore,_

_Peter and I switched. We thought it would be too obvious if it was me. He was the Secret Keeper. I went to his flat to check on him that night. There weren’t any signs of a struggle. He betrayed them._

_I have Harry. He’s safe._

_\- Sirius_

For a moment, he contemplates writing one to Remus, except—

Remus is Dumbledore’s man, still. At his core, Remus doesn’t feel as though he deserves anything good in life, looks at every kindness like it’s something he has to pay back. Most likely, he’s still trying to “repay” Dumbledore for letting him attend Hogwarts, never mind that _every other eleven-year-old child_ with an inkling of magic in Britain _could._ Never mind that Voldemort himself attended Hogwarts, or that fucking Death Eaters were allowed to continue with their schooling.

And he thinks of Remus, his soft mop of brown hair, his warm eyes. He thinks of his laugh, the one that comes out almost unwittingly whenever Sirius accidentally does something particularly amusing. He thinks of lazy mornings waking up in his arms, spread across his chest. He thinks of Remus, and he thinks of love, something approaching unconditional love.

He should trust Remus. He must. After all, look what happened the last time he didn’t, he thinks bitterly. Remus cares about Harry, just as much as Sirius does. But the sheer possibility that Remus might give Harry over to Dumbledore anyway, because Dumbledore is all-knowing and wise and so, so gracious—

He’ll tell Remus soon, as soon as he can. In a few months, everything will be fine, he’s sure, and mentally, he’s already rearranging the future. Dumbledore will find Peter, because of course he will, and then he’ll let Sirius raise Harry, just as he should. He and Remus will find their way back to each other. They’ll share a home in Godric’s Hollow, close enough to where Lily and James spent their last months. They’ll tell Harry stories upon stories of his parents so he’ll know, at least, how fiercely they loved him. They’ll mourn on Halloween and spoil Harry on Christmas and it will be wonderful. 

It will be wonderful, he tells himself again, this time with more certainty. Then, for the second time in mere hours, he Apparates away with a wailing baby and prays, against all logic, that everything will be fine.

**Paris, France, November 1981**

France is—well, France. Sirius has no affection for the nation. Contrary to family lore, the Black family never had strong ties here, despite his father’s insistence that his children learn the language, for propriety in high society or some bullcrap like that. At least the countryside, in theory, is beautiful. Autumn leaves are strewn across cobblestone paths, and life here is sluggish in the best way. There are quaint little shops that line the streets, and everyone is polite and charming. He’s sure they’re the kind of people who greet each other by name in the mornings. One shop might even be an honest-to-God patisserie. It looks like the kind of place Remus would love, probably end up writing soppy love poems about.

Unfortunately, they can’t stay there for long. The moment he tests the wards on Alphard’s old chateau, he realizes that they aren’t nearly strong enough, worn down by decades of disuse and disrepair. His uncle had bought it in a fit of flighty spending and proceeded to use it only once or twice, realizing soon after that he much preferred a remote getaway somewhere warm.

Theoretically, he could try to conjure them up again, but an enormous outburst of magic in a supposedly Muggle residential area would likely catch the attention of the French Ministry before he could say “Quidditch.” Besides, he’s not quite sure he _can_ put them up again—if he remembers correctly, a great deal of them were related to bloodletting and the sanctity of familial union, two things Sirius has never quite had the stomach for.

The other option, then: hide. 

In the chateau’s dusty bathroom, he cuts his hair short, grimacing at the loss. It hasn’t been shorter than his collarbone in years. He looks like Regulus, and he winces at the realization. But—no time to dwell on it now. The next thing to do is recolor it. He charms it light brown and curls it, for good measure. He laughs, a bit bitterly, when he realizes that he’d simply pasted on his best recollection of Remus’s hair. It looks immensely unnatural. Finally, he conjures up some glasses, thick and square. It’s not the best disguise, to put it lightly, but it will have to do for now. 

Harry won’t be able to pass for his son, and in all honesty, he doesn’t want to make him. It would feel a bit like a betrayal. He thinks of old, slightly senile pureblood matriarchs commenting on his _exotic looks_ , examining the shape of his eyes as if they were something alien, and swallows hard. No, he won’t make Harry pass for his son. Instead, he transfigures a plush armchair into his best approximation of a Muggle stroller, copying the design of the one Lily had bought for Harry, once. The covering will obscure Harry’s face for a while, and with any luck, the French wizarding community won’t know much about the events of the night before, at least not yet. 

He examines their disguises. Well, his disguise, really. In a flash of inspiration, he transfigures his jeans and shirt into a tweed suit. He really does look like Remus now, Remus on his way to yet another job interview, eyes full of hope in spite of logic. It will work. He’s certain of this, more certain than he has been of anything in a while. No one will expect Sirius Black to be strutting around France in an ill-fitting suit, looking far more professorial than rebellious. 

He’ll take Harry to Paris, he thinks. A hotel, first, somewhere Sirius can plan. Then, an apartment; his French is only passable, but he could get a job, maybe. He’s sure he could charm his way through a Muggle job interview. 

“Sorry, sprog,” he sighs, picking up Harry and his suitcase in one arm and the stroller in the other. He hopes that Apparition doesn’t have a negative effect on infants, though by the way his own stomach feels at this point, it probably does. 

They land, this time, in a thin alleyway. He barely lands feet-first, and involuntarily, he vomits. It takes him too long to notice the lanky teenager standing next to him, blowing out smoke from a cigarette and looking at him as though he is a very unpleasant vermin. 

“Dégoûtant,” she snorts, shifting her way to the other side of the alley. Thankfully, she doesn’t give a second glance to him and Harry, and he wonders, for a second, if Muggles are really this oblivious or if they simply don’t care. 

“Merci beaucoup,” he replies dryly, clutching at his stomach. She doesn’t seem to notice—in fact, her back is turned on him now—so he figures it’s safe to vanish the vomit. He’s violated the Statute of Secrecy already, after all. He tucks Harry into the stroller gently, making sure that no appendages have disappeared. Thankfully, Harry looks, bar the scar on his forehead, like any other infant, down to his ability to fall asleep at the most inconvenient times. 

Luck seems to finally be on his side, because he finds a hotel easily, a grand one that he suspects even his mother would reluctantly approve of simply because of its unabashed opulence. Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and a plush red carpet lines the floors. His last day of luxury and excess, most likely, and he finds that he doesn’t feel as sorry about it as he once thought he would. 

The hotel clerk is a middle-aged woman whose eyes barely pass through him as he natters on about how he urgently needs a room for him and his son, since their reservation had fallen through unexpectedly at the last minute. For a moment, when he realizes that he only has pounds and not francs, he braces himself for a confrontation, but she simply takes the money, muttering something about _fucking tourists_ and calls a bellhop to show them to their hotel room.

The moment he walks into the room, he collapses onto the ridiculous, too-large bed. He hasn’t slept in more than a day, he realizes, but somehow, he barely feels anything. Mostly, he feels numb, as though his skin has been peeled away from him and gingerly reattached without any of the nerve endings. Harry’s still sound asleep in the stroller, and he needs something to ground him, now, something tangible. 

The television will do, he decides, at least for white noise. He discovers quickly that there are only three pre-programmed channels, one of which is dedicated to advertising the hotel’s various amenities and the other to playing inane children’s shows in French. The news it is, then. The lack of variety is a bit unfortunate—he remembers enjoying a funny Muggle show named _Yes, Minister_ once, but he supposes that a French hotel wouldn’t include it in its programming. 

As usual, the news is both mind-numbing and dreadful. He listens to it half-asleep for a while as the newscaster discusses a coming thunderstorm in the evening and some Muggle pop star embroiled in a torrid love affair. His owl, Perseus, flutters back somewhere in the middle of a discussion about a spaceship launch with an arrogant fluff of his feathers. Then, suddenly, he hears his own name, and he jerks awake.

 _“A young man by the name of Sirius Black is believed to have kidnapped a young boy of South Asian descent,”_ the newscaster reads in that same bored monotone. _“He is believed to be armed and very dangerous."_ On screen, a photo of his own face flashes, and he’s relieved to see that it’s an older one, where his hair falls beyond his shoulders and he’s wearing his leather jacket, full of metal bolts and pins. He remembers grinning at the camera in the original photograph. Here, though, he almost seems to snarl. 

Dumbledore must not have gotten his owl, he thinks, because the other possibility is too horrible to consider. “Perseus?” he calls, and the old owl flies back to him wearily, looking as though he, too, has suffered a horrible tragedy. “Fetch me a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ —er, _La Gazette du Sorcier_?” He cringes at his own accent. He wonders if owls can distinguish between different languages, and from the offended sniff he swears Perseus is giving him, he’s fairly sure they can. 

With a ruffle of his feathers, Perseus is off, and Sirius sinks back into the bed, sighing. If the French Muggles know, there’s no question that the wizarding community does as well. He and Harry will have to leave again. Mentally, he considers places they could still go. Germany is out of the question; with Grindelwald still hanging over the nation like a spectre, even suspected dark wizards will not be tolerated. Spain would be the same. Lily had told him, once, about Francisco Franco and fascism, explaining it as “blood prejudice, but based on where you come from and what you believe instead of what runs through your veins” and comparing Voldemort to Franco. Besides, he knows no Spanish at all. 

Perseus returns—Sirius has no idea how he managed to obtain a British newspaper, but now isn’t the time to ask questions, really—and Sirius grabs it quickly, skimming the front pages. The main headline is, as expected, the presumed death of Voldemort and the survival of one Harry James Potter, now dubbed by the press as “the Boy Who Lived.” On the side, though, is an article about himself.

**_Suspected Dark Wizard Sirius Black at Large_ **

_Alicia O’Brien, Staff Writer_

_Sirius Black, 21, is believed to have kidnapped the Boy Who Lived to suit his own nefarious ends. He is in possession of his wand, as well as a great deal of personal effects._

_Black is most widely known as an up-start former Auror and the best friend of James Potter, who was tragically murdered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named late last evening. Black is believed to have been the Potters’ Secret Keeper after their home was placed under the Fidelius Charm, having voluntarily betrayed his former friends to the dark wizard._

_Black is also a leading suspect in the murder of his former friend, Peter Pettigrew, whose apartment was found rampaged and strewn with blood in the early hours of the morning. On Black, one witch who wished to stay anonymous stated, “I simply can’t believe it. He, Potter, Pettigrew, and Lupin always seemed to be the best of friends in school. I can’t understand what would compel him to betray them in such a way.”_

_If you see this wizard, promptly report him to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for apprehension. The Ministry of Magic is reportedly offering a reward of 1,000 Galleons for any information on Black’s whereabouts._

“Fuck!” he shouts, and he doesn’t even bother to lower his voice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” It is all incredibly, horrifically unfair. Peter is somehow fucking gone—maybe dead, if the _Prophet_ is to be believed, although the _Prophet_ did also write that Sirius was the Secret Keeper—and everyone thinks Sirius is a fucking murderer and kidnapper. The worst part, he thinks bitterly, is that he hasn’t even managed to do any of these things, at least not correctly. He’s fairly certain that he didn’t sleepwalk his way into killing Peter, after all, and he’s also fairly certain that most would-be kidnappers don’t commit their crime in the presence of a witness. 

The whole of Europe is out, then, and likely America and Australia too. He considers the Soviet Union, briefly, and then bursts into shaking, ridiculous laughter. In Africa, he and Harry wouldn’t be able to blend in easily, and he doesn’t know enough Spanish or Portuguese for any of the South American nations. 

He swallows. He still knows one place he can go, where he knows the language well enough, where they have a shot at blending in. He looks at Harry’s soft face, peaceful in sleep. _I’m going to keep you safe_ , he vows. _I swear I will_.


	2. Hogwarts and Hong Kong, 1981

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as of today, i have the majority of the story planned out, and i'll be aiming to post one chapter a week!

**London, Britain, November 1981**

On the morning of November first, Remus Lupin wakes to silence and a bright sun shining through the window of his grey flat, warming his bed. 

That much, he knows, is wrong. He feels peaceful, almost, as he hasn’t in months in this world at war.

There’s an owl for him. She pecks at his headboard, glaring at him reproachfully, as though she’s been waiting for hours at his bedside and has no intention of doing so for much longer. He quickly recognizes it as McGonagall’s, and if he didn’t realize that there’s something horribly wrong already, he does now. 

_Come to Hogwarts immediately_ , the short note tells him in McGonagall’s crisp script. The force of the realization flows through him like an electrocution, and he _knows_. 

James and Lily, then. Harry, too. And Sirius—

But he shouldn’t assume, not yet. To assume makes an ass out of you and me, et cetera, and all that. Instead, he gets dressed quickly, slipping off his worn nightclothes and cursing as he hits his arm on the wardrobe door, and then Floos to the Hog’s Head. 

Waiting there, with a grim look on her face, is McGonagall. “I’m sure you know by now, Remus. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Know what?” he says, his heart sinking. McGonagall looks even grimmer now.

“I think it will be best if Albus tells you, then,” she says, her eyes sad and weary. 

He doesn’t want to believe it, even as McGonagall leads him up and into the castle, even as he hears hushed whispers from students in the halls, whispers of _You-Know-Who gone_ , _the Potters dead_ , _Harry Potter lives_. He can’t bear it, partly because it is altogether nonsensical. 

Here is the Sirius he knows: laughing eyes, constantly in motion. Horribly charming, the natural gracefulness that came from a childhood at Grimmauld Place never disappearing, not even after years of conscious rebellion. Long, dark hair that he refuses to cut on principle, because it’s _punk rock_ , even though Remus knows that Sirius prefers the Bee Gees over the Sex Pistols. Stolen, fervent kisses in empty classrooms, ones that became lazier, more comfortable ones in the short, glorious year after Hogwarts. Fierce loyalty to those he loves, so strong he would die for it.

He clings to this as he walks into Dumbledore’s office, where the headmaster is waiting, with eyes just as sad as McGonagall’s. “I’m sure you know by now, Remus, but last night, Voldemort attacked the Potters at their home in Godric’s Hollow.”

He nods numbly as Dumbledore continues. “Unfortunately, both James and Lily Potter were killed in the attack. However, Harry Potter, survived, and in doing so, appears to have vanquished Voldemort, although the details of how this came to pass are currently unknown.” That, Remus doubts, because there’s something unreadable in Dumbledore’s face, but he lets it go. Dumbledore looks at him with unspeakable pity, and Remus has to choke back sobs. For a moment, he hunches over, his head buried in his hands, and then forces himself to sit up. 

“So Harry’s alive,” he says. Incredibly, sweet, bubbly Harry is alive. And James and Lily are dead. “Sirius?” He feels himself wince as he says the name.

Dumbledore sighs, and he looks impossibly old in that moment, as though the weight of it all has finally come crashing down upon him. “It was presumed that Sirius Black was the Potters’ Secret Keeper. I’m sure you understand what that implies, Remus.”

“He wouldn’t,” Remus says, and surprises even himself with how firmly he believes it. Or maybe he just needs to believe it, because anything else would hurt too much. “No, he couldn’t have. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—have done this. He loved the Potters. They were his _family_.”

“Albus,” McGonagall says softly, and Dumbledore sighs.

“This morning, I did receive a curious letter in what appears to be Mr. Black’s handwriting,” Dumbledore says, handing Remus a piece of crumpled parchment. 

Remus skims it quickly, and with each word, his heart grows warmer, because he has always been an incorrigible optimist when it comes to Sirius. He ignores the sharp sting of anger he feels at Peter’s betrayal and tries fruitlessly to stop his heart from singing at Sirius’s innocence. A flood of relief washes over him. “So he didn’t do it. He didn’t, I knew it, Professor—”

“Last night, Sirius Black Disapparated with Harry Potter from Godric’s Hollow shortly after the attack, ignoring my instructions to give Harry to Rubeus Hagrid, who would then bring him to me,” Dumbledore says, rubbing his temples. He sighs. “They have disappeared quite thoroughly; the Aurors have already questioned his mother, who claims to have no knowledge of where he could be, as well as searching his flat and his uncle’s manor.”

“He said he would keep Harry safe,” Remus repeats, feeling like an automaton, the words stiff in his mouth. “He said he would—”

“Remus, after this war, do you still feel comfortable taking everyone at simply their word?”

“But it’s Sirius,” Remus says dumbly, vaguely aware that this is a battle he is doomed to lose. He looks around the room wildly. “Professor McGonagall—”

“This morning, the Aurors also searched Peter Pettigrew’s flat,” Dumbledore says gently, and Remus shakes his head, _no_ , _no_ , because he doesn’t know which possibility is worse: Peter being a traitor or Peter being dead. “I shall spare you the details, but in short, it appears that he is dead as well, with Mr. Black being the chief suspect in his murder.”

He feels sick. The warmth he awoke to now seems to be a galaxy away, and he can feel himself gripping the edges of his seat, his knuckles turning white. “Sirius didn’t murder him. He couldn’t have.” 

“Unfortunately, we cannot say if he did or did not without his physical presence, Remus,” Dumbledore says. “Remus—” Dumbledore looks at McGonagall, who seems to realize what Dumbledore wants, since she leaves the room simply with a nod.

“Remus, when I was a young man, I had a friend quite similar to Mr. Black. He was charming, witty, and handsome, as I suspect many would describe Mr. Black to be,” Dumbledore starts. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, now, and though Remus shifts uncomfortably in his seat—he has a feeling this is a conversation Dumbledore never expected to have with him, least of all in this manner—he lets Dumbledore continue. “We believed we would do great things together. He told me this, at least, and I trusted him implicitly. He had a way about him that made all other wizards seem like mere mortals, all while he held court like a deity. I think—I believed that I loved him, then.”

“Professor, I’m not sure what this has to do with Sirius.”

“Remus, that young man was Gellert Grindelwald.”

“Professor, with all due respect, Sirius is not a dark wizard,” Remus snaps. “He explained to you already—”

“Remus, even if Mr. Black is telling the truth, can you understand how this appears, if not to me, then to the Ministry?” Dumbledore asks. He sighs again, looking troubled. “James and Lily Potter were betrayed by their Secret Keeper, who the majority of wizarding society believes to have been Sirius Black. Shortly afterwards, their close friend, Peter Pettigrew, is murdered in his flat by an unknown wizard. After Voldemort attacks the Potters, Sirius Black appears at the ruins of their home, ignores my orders, and kidnaps Harry Potter. He then disappears completely, leaving only a note in which he claims his innocence with no proof of it.”

“But that’s not what happened,” Remus protests, acutely aware of the tinge of desperation in his voice. It was a mistake. It has to be. 

“Is it not?” Dumbledore cocks an eyebrow. “In a certain light, this is indeed what happened. I do not believe the current Ministry will be very keen on discerning motives; if I remember correctly, this afternoon, the Minister is due to give a speech commemorating the Potters, celebrating the downfall of Voldemort, and laying the foundations for the Ministry’s plan for apprehending Death Eaters, which will be headed by Bartemius Crouch.”

“You can’t mean that bastard,” Remus says incredulously. “Professor, Crouch allowed the Aurors to use the Unforgivables on any suspected dark wizard. Bagnold would never—” 

“Minister Bagnold seeks to project a show of strength and unity in these trying times, and Crouch is undeniably a force of strength. He uses what some feel to be cruel and even inhumane measures to obtain justice, but what many others believe to be more than warranted for those who have committed crimes against society. As you can see, if Sirius is apprehended, there will not be mercy awaiting him, regardless of if he deserves it or not.”

 _But that’s not fair_ , Remus wants to scream, except he is twenty-one-years-old and acutely aware that the world is not fair. A fair world would not see James and Lily dead before their twenty-second birthdays. A fair world would not have Harry orphaned. A fair world would not have Sirius on the run, perhaps a traitor. A fair world would not have Peter murdered in his own home. The world has not been fair for a long time, and it does not seem interested in becoming one now. 

“What can we do?” Remus asks desperately. _What can I do to find Sirius and Harry_ , he does not ask, because he’s unsure if he wants to know the answer.

“What we always do. We carry on.” Except carrying on is what parents tell their children to do when they scrape their knees, not what one does when the only friends they have ever had are either dead or gone. 

“Right,” Remus says stiffly. He buries his face in his hands and wills himself not to scream. “Professor, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to leave now.” 

Dumbledore nods, his eyes glistening. “I’ll have Hagrid see you out, then.” Dumbledore sends off his Patronus, and they sit in uncomfortable silence as Remus resolutely looks anywhere but at the headmaster. He’s never noticed how interesting the tile floor is before. Very polished. He wonders if it’s charmed that way or the house elves just do very good work. 

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Hagrid, looking exceedingly forlorn, emerges from the doorway to lead Remus out of the castle. He’s never seen Hagrid look so defeated before, not even when Fabian Prewett managed to chip a tooth on one of his rock cakes. 

“What happened last night, Hagrid?” Remus asks softly after they’re close to the entrance gates. He tries to use the gentlest tone he can, but unfortunately, Hagrid bursts into tears anyway. 

“I tried ter keep him safe, I did,” Hagrid says, wiping furiously at his tears. “But Black was there, an’ he said, I can take him, Hagrid, I’ll keep him safe, but I told him I had strict orders from Dumbledore ter brin' him ter relatives, an’ then Black asked which relatives, an’ I told him Lily’s sister, an’ he took Harry away, an’ he—”

At this point, Hagrid starts crying again, and Remus decides that it would be best to stop talking for the foreseeable future. 

As he Apparates out of Hogsmeade and back to his flat, he thinks of Hagrid’s words. Lily’s sister—Petunia, then. She’d been at Lily’s wedding with her husband, a dull man who looked at James with a combination of hatred and terror in his pale eyes. Vernon or Victor, his name had been.

He’d gossiped with Petunia throughout the wedding, making comments alternatively about _their kind_ and James’s curly hair and brown skin. Near the end of the reception, Remus and Sirius had slow-danced to a Muggle song neither of them quite knew, and when Remus had pressed a small, chaste kiss to the corner of Sirius’s mouth, Vernon had sneered cruelly at them, muttering _fucking queers_ , and Remus had held Sirius back from punching the man square in his face. 

And Dumbledore had wanted Harry to live with them. 

Remus shakes his head, sighing. In any case, Harry won’t be living with them now. He’s somewhere with Sirius—hopefully safe and healthy, if Sirius was telling the truth, and God, he hopes he is. It would hurt too much if he wasn’t. In truth, everything hurts too much right now—thoughts of James, thoughts of Lily, even the fucking sun streaming through his windows, seeming to mock him with its brightness. 

He needs an out. Spontaneously, he decides to pay a visit to Sirius’s flat and allows the familiar swirl of Apparition to overtake him. 

The flat is heavily warded, the magic guarding it almost tangible in its strength, but the wards let him easily, and he isn’t quite sure what to make of that. A quick glance in, and he finds that the apartment is nearly empty, bare but for the angular furniture. He’s not certain what he had expected, really.

The last time he was here, two months ago, it had been a dreary autumn night, unusually cold for early September. The wind had blown his cheeks red, and he was more than a bit tipsy—not so much that he couldn’t Apparate, but enough that he wouldn’t have gone to Sirius’s flat if he was sober. He’d gone out to a pub with some of his fellow researchers in the Defensive Runes department at UCL, and it had been altogether pleasant, even if no one dared to get thoroughly drunk for the unspoken fear of the Death Eaters. In recent months, Voldemort had turned from targeted attacks on Muggles and Muggleborn families to ones on anyone who showed even the slightest sign of resisting his racist beliefs, and few were safe from the shroud of terror that descended over wizarding Britain. 

He didn’t know why he went, really. Maybe it had been the way the pretty bartender with the big doe eyes had smiled at him, a dark, secret smile that spoke of lust and desire, and even though the bartender wasn’t what Remus wanted, it had been like a revelation: hello, world, I am Remus Lupin, and I am attractive, somehow, to human beings besides Sirius Black. And he had, for one wild second, wanted to tell Sirius that—wanted to make Sirius hurt in the same way that Remus had hurt that night, weeks ago, when Sirius walked out of their shared flat with two bags and his mouth set in a grim line.

In any case, he had shown up to Sirius’s flat in the middle of the night, knocking on his door wildly. He’d used the emergency knock, the one for emergencies and dire situations, and it _wasn’t_ a dire situation, really, but Sirius was ignoring him, had ignored him for more than a month, so it seemed fair. 

“Fucking hell, Remus?” Sirius had jerked open the door, obviously panicked, and looked at him in disbelief. In that moment—in an oversized t-shirt with a faded logo and pants, a look of confusion and terror on his face—Sirius was the most beautiful thing Remus had ever seen, so he stepped forward and kissed him. 

It was almost comical, the way they still fit together perfectly. Remus knew the shape of Sirius’s mouth intimately, how he sighed when Remus nipped at his bottom lip, the shuddering sigh that went through his body when Remus tightened his hand around the base of Sirius’s neck. For a moment, everything felt right again, and then Sirius jerked away.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sirius demanded, pulling out his wand. Inwardly, Remus bit back a laugh, because if he _had_ been a Death Eater, Sirius would have been done for in seconds. Then again, he supposed that Death Eaters didn’t go around kissing their victims. 

“I—” Remus had no answer, really.

“Never mind,” Sirius sighed. “Merlin, how drunk _are_ you? Fuck, just come inside. You can’t Apparate like this, and I don’t trust you with the Floo either.”

Remus stood stiffly in the doorway and refused to move. He enjoyed the exasperated look on Sirius’s face. He deserved it. 

“Why did you leave?” he asked, because nothing else came to his mind, and he had a feeling it would hurt Sirius. It did. He watched as Sirius’s face crumpled, and in the cruelest part of his mind, he thought, _good_. 

“It wasn’t working anymore,” Sirius said shortly, pulling Remus inside. Against Remus’s better senses, he didn’t resist. “Don’t just stand here, it’s not safe. And fuck, Remus, we barely even talked. All we ever did was fuck and scream at each other.”

“Because you _wouldn’t_ talk.” And that was true—for the month before Sirius left, he’d wriggled his way out of uncomfortable conversations, conversations about the war, about the Order, and James and Lily and Harry. Instead, they’d talked about the most menial of things: Quidditch scores, the weather, what they would make for dinner. Or, more often, they wouldn’t talk at all—Sirius would just shut Remus up with a kiss, every time he hit upon an uncomfortable subject, and Remus had leaned in, because if they couldn’t talk, at least they could fuck.

“Well, you wouldn’t tell me where you went every other week, so I think we can call that even,” Sirius snapped. He flung himself onto the couch, far too dramatically, in Remus’s opinion. 

“What the fuck?” Remus laughed incredulously. “Are you seriously accusing me of _cheating_ on you?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Sirius said, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked almost petulant.

“It seems like it,” Remus replied. “God, Sirius, you’re such a fucking child.”

“ _I’m_ the child? You don’t get to come here, come into _my_ flat, and—”

Drunk Apparition is never recommended. Somehow, Remus still managed it. The last thing he saw before he whirled out of Sirius’s flat was Sirius’s incredulous, infuriated face. The shouts seemed to follow him all the way back to his bedroom. 

Now, there is no Sirius leaning on the doorway, no Sirius with steely dark eyes, no Sirius to kiss the living daylights out of. There is only Sirius’s flat, bare and clinical. 

Cautiously, Remus walks in, scanning it cursorily for traps. There are none. Sirius seems to have left hastily, if the knocked-over box of Weetabix on the marble countertop is any indication. The console table has been robbed of its television, and Remus has to stifle a laugh, imagining Sirius shrinking the television down to the size of a Sickle and stuffing it into his suitcase. 

The bedroom is bare, the mattress stripped of its sheets. A red table lamp sits on the dresser, looking forlorn. Remus glances around, ready to leave the room, and then he sees it.

A small crib, quite obviously the result of hasty transfiguration, if the shoddy proportions are anything to go by. It’s bright red—Gryffindor red, with gold accents. There’s even a small baby mobile hanging above it, one with spinning stags and does. If you squinted and tilted your head to the side, it would look extraordinarily similar to the crib Lily had bought for Harry, more than a year ago.

Remus runs a hand over the edges of the crib. There are no spikes that threaten to shoot out, no curses on the wood, no snakes that hiss and bite at his hand. There’s not even a speck of dust. What kind of kidnapper, he wonders, would go to the trouble of crafting a crib for their victim? A kidnapper would leave their victim in a lined cardboard box, most likely, or even on the floor. They certainly wouldn’t conjure up a baby mobile.

Bitterly, he wonders how hard it would have been for Sirius to just write an _explanation_ , but then again, Sirius has never made things easy.

* * *

**Paris, France, November 1981**

Sirius spends at least half an hour talking himself out of it. He hasn’t been to Hong Kong in years, for one, and the last time he was there, he’d had a horrific argument with his mother that ended in him leaving the rented summer manor to return early to Grimmauld Place with a darkening bruise on his cheek. Both his Mandarin and Cantonese are out of practice. Anyone with ears would be able to easily recognize him as a foreigner, an interloper, drawing suspicion to him immediately. Hong Kong is a British colony, so there could be Ministry officials and Aurors lurking everywhere.

But for every argument he comes up with, a counterargument appears as well. It works in his favor that he hasn’t been to Hong Kong in years; few people will think that he would turn to the small territory for sanctuary. Honestly, he’s not sure how many people even know he’s Chinese. He’s fairly certain, for one, that Evan Rosier was under the impression that he was Japanese for all seven years of their schooling, although Rosier was never known for his intelligence. 

He would be a foreigner, yes, but a British-born Chinese man returning to Hong Kong isn’t exactly unusual. Lily had told him once about Hong Kong’s rising status as “an economic superpower, Sirius; there’s lots of money to be made there,” and though Sirius can’t be arsed to care about money right now, he’s fairly certain he could pass himself off as a Muggle businessman without much trouble. 

And Hong Kong being a British colony might be a benefit. The Ministry of Magic is half in shambles, and he doubts that they have many agents stationed abroad in their current state. Harry will grow up speaking English, and if he remembers correctly from one of the very few times his mother had told him about her childhood without it ending in screaming and hexes, magical children who grow up in the territory can choose to either go to Hogwarts or to one of the many Chinese wizarding schools. 

And Harry would be safe. Not many dark wizards in Hong Kong, or at least not the kind interested in murdering an unassuming infant. Besides, if they’re lucky, they won’t have to stay in Hong Kong for very long anyway. 

Sirius sighs. They’ll go to Hong Kong, then, at least for a few weeks. After a few weeks, everything will have been sorted out—everything with Harry, with Peter, with the remaining Death Eaters—and then they’ll be back in Britain. And for now, he needs to deal with the immediate problems at hand—namely, that of transportation.

He can’t Apparate to Hong Kong; that much is obvious. Even Apparating to France was far past the boundaries of what should be acceptable. Flooing is off the table as well; ever since the war began, the Aurors patrol the network with the paranoia of Mad-Eye Moody. Creating an unauthorized Portkey would only draw unwanted attention, and there’s no fucking way he can go to the International Portkey Terminal without being caught by one of the innumerable guards patrolling the station. 

There’s only one option left: some sort of Muggle transportation. 

Contrary to popular belief, Sirius isn’t completely unaware of Muggle technology. He knows the basics of how a light switch works, can probably put a basic circuit together if given an instruction manual. Hell, he built his own flying motorcycle. While he might not remember the name of the Foreign Secretary or completely understand the mechanics of a record player, he can function fairly well in the Muggle world.

As a result, he knows what an aeroplane is. He is fairly certain that he knows how to buy a ticket for one. However, he has never been in one, and until this day, never intended to, largely due to its resemblance to a death trap with wings. 

For this reason, when he’s finally managed to wake up Harry, feed him, change his diaper, and Apparate them to the airport, he’s sweating, both out of panic and fear—fear that he’ll somehow be caught, even under the Glamour he’s cast, fear that he’ll fuck up purchasing the ticket, fear that Death Eaters will find them in the airport, even though he knows, logically, that none of them would be caught dead in a place as obviously Muggle as this one. 

It goes off without a hitch, though. Well, mostly—when he tries to buy the tickets, the desk girl looks at him for a moment too long, and he almost panics, thinking he’s been found out. Thankfully, the truth is far less dramatic. She spends the whole of their five-minute-long interaction flirting with him openly, batting her eyelashes and cooing over Harry and _his tiny little hands, he’s adorable_. Her brief infatuation gets them on the next flight out of Paris and into Kai Tak Airport. 

The flight, however, is horrible. First, there’s the take-off, which feels like the uncomfortable swirl of Apparition combined with a bloody earthquake. As a result, Harry bursts into tears, along with at least three other infants on board, and Sirius resigns himself to yet another sleepless night.

Even worse, though, is when Harry manages to fall into a deep slumber, and Sirius is left with nothing but his thoughts. He doesn’t dare try to sleep as well—what if something happens to Harry?—so instead, he stares into space, wondering.

He’s twenty one years old, has never held a steady job, and he has a _baby_. 

When James made him Harry’s godfather, Sirius had been incredulous. “Are you _sure_ about this?” he’d asked at least five times, and James had rolled his eyes.

“You’re my brother, Sirius,” he’d said. “I can’t imagine asking anyone else, really.”

“But—” Sirius gestured at himself, at his torn jeans and leather jacket and the Muggle band t-shirt he’d stolen from Remus months ago. “I got _fired_ from Auror training. I didn’t even know that could happen.”

“The Aurors are fucking wankers who think they rule the world,” James said. “Look, you know me better than anyone, and I can’t imagine wanting anyone else in my son’s life. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to be raising him by yourself. Lily and I aren’t going anywhere.”

Thinking of that now, Sirius wants to sob and laugh hysterically at the same time. He doesn’t know the first thing about raising a child, let alone the son of his dead best friends. And fuck, they’re really dead. He wonders who will be at the funeral and wills himself not to think of Remus, standing alone as they bury James and Lily, an undertaker smoothing cloth and dirt over their still bodies. 

This was never supposed to happen, he thinks. He should have been the Secret Keeper, should have protected them with everything he had. If only they hadn’t switched, if only he had been more sure, if only—

He feels a tear trickle down his cheek and swallows hard. Picking up Harry, he gently rocks him, humming the tune of what he hopes is a lullaby and thinking. What do babies even need to eat? He’s fairly sure that Lily made her own baby food and fuck, he needs to learn to cook something besides rice and eggs. Does Harry have to go to school? He and Regulus had tutors all the way up to when they went to Hogwarts, but he can’t exactly do that for Harry, and he also can’t remember when the revolving door of tutors started. 

In short, he’s utterly fucked. Not that he didn’t know that before.

When they finally land—again with a stomach-churning descent that makes both him and Harry want to vomit, if Harry’s cries are anything to go by—Sirius is relieved—no, ecstatic. If they’d been on the plane for even a moment longer, he’s sure he would have flung himself out of it head-first. 

Kai Tak Airport is tiny and cramped, and he curses as he tries to maneuver himself and Harry out of the crush of people. Even in November, Hong Kong is sweltering, and he tugs uncomfortably at the neck of his shirt. 

And then they’re in the city proper, and Sirius has to stop himself from gasping.

It’s nothing like London or Paris. Ahead of him are wide stretches of skyscrapers, and beyond that, the mountains, shielded partly by the thick clouds. Bright signs painted with characters advertising food, salons, supermarkets dominate the city. Double-decker buses chug along on the crowded roads, and crowds of tourists and residents alike walk briskly along the streets, paying no mind to where the sidewalk ends and the cement road starts. It’s loud, crowded, and almost beautiful. In his stroller, Harry laughs, pointing at the sky. “Look!” he shouts.

“I’m looking,” Sirius says, a small smile forming for the first time in what feels like months. In the hours and days to come, there will be errands to run, duties to fulfill—a large, discreet withdrawal of Hong Kong dollars and renminbi from the Hong Kong branch of Gringotts, a flat to purchase, a grocery store to find, a letter to write to Remus, begging for forgiveness. But for now, the cityscape and Harry’s future—their future—stretch endlessly into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos + comments fuel me! thank you for reading <3
> 
> on another note, if you want to see something simultaneously beautiful and terrifying, search up pictures of kai tak airport. according to some stories, if you looked out the window during the descent into kai tak, you could see people cooking dinner in their apartments.


	3. Hong Kong and London, 1982 and 1980

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early update! the next chapter will probably take me a bit longer, but i hope you enjoy this!

**Aberdeen, Hong Kong, February 1982**

It’s Valentine’s Day, and for the first time in five years, Sirius doesn’t have a date.

It’s not like he wants one—well, he does, but the only person he’d want one with is more than a thousand miles away and probably hates him—but it’s just another reminder of how everything, in the past year, has managed to go to hell.

At least Hong Kong doesn’t seem to put much stock into the holiday. As he maneuvers the shopping cart holding Harry around the ParknShop, he notices grimly that there are no decorations, none of the displays of teddy bears embracing and pink-boxed chocolates that he’s used to.

It scares him, sometimes, how easily he’s adjusted, how quickly he’s settled into this new life with Harry. Sirius has never been one for routines, but he’s well-aware that he’s on the way to forming one. It feels almost like another betrayal—how can he just move on when James and Lily will never get a chance to?

He justifies it with the excuse that it’s for Harry. Everything he’s doing now is for Harry, from their flat (one in Aberdeen, both because of the relative familiarity of the name—he’d liked the Scottish city the one time he’d gone there with the Potters on holiday, and it seemed like a good omen—and its location next to a multitude of open markets and a ParknShop) to the food he buys to the backstory he’s created. 

He hasn’t been Sirius Black and Harry hasn’t been Harry Potter—not officially, anyway—for four months now. In Hong Kong, he and Harry are Stephen and Harry Hau, immigrants from Oxfordshire. Stephen is a recent widower, formerly married to a South Asian woman, which explains Harry’s lack of familial resemblance to his “father.” He’s moved back to Hong Kong, his hometown, to get closer to his remaining family. Stephen dresses in ill-fitting collared shirts and slacks, keeps his hair short and tidy, and disapproves of anything he deems improper. Stephen is overly protective of his only son. Stephen works as a translator for a local newspaper and is an aspiring author, which explains why he works from home. Stephen takes great pleasure in correcting the grammar of other people. Stephen is extraordinarily British and refuses to take his tea with any sugar at all. Stephen is not unusual in any way. Stephen is a jackass. 

It’s not a perfect cover, but it will do for now.

Hopefully, _now_ will last for only a few more months. They’ve already stayed in Hong Kong for far longer than Sirius planned to. The wizarding news he gets is sparse now—the newsstands in the Wizarding Quarter of Hong Kong don’t carry _The Daily Prophet_ regularly, only the inane special issues the newspaper releases for holidays—but from what he can gather, he’s still a wanted man in Britain. Mentions of the Boy-Who-Lived, however, have slowed to a trickle, the _Prophet_ and the bulk of British wizarding society having falsely assumed that Harry is dead. 

He sighs, making his way into the vegetable aisle. One of the most difficult parts of adjusting, to be honest, has been the fact that he can no longer rely on television dinners and rice to fuel him. For the first few weeks, he’d resorted to purchasing manufactured baby food for Harry and instant noodles for himself, but every time he did, he could vividly imagine Lily’s disapproving glare. After a month of that, he decided that it wouldn't be the hardest thing in the world to just mash up some bananas and peas for Harry. Or learn to cook.

“Bad!” Harry shouts loudly, pointing at an offending tomato, and Sirius sighs again. Recently, Harry’s vocabulary has managed to expand from “look,” “mama,” “dada,” “cat,” “no,” and “bye” to include “bad” and “goo,” which Sirius assumes means “good.” He hopes, at least. It doesn’t really make sense for Harry to point at flowers and call them goo.

“Yes, tomatoes are bad, Harry,” Sirius says, unable to stop the smile that spreads across his face as Harry points at the tomatoes, pulling a disgusted face. “Very, very bad. Absolutely disgusting, but they’re good for you. You don’t want your teeth to fall out from scurvy, do you?”

“Bad,” Harry repeats solemnly. And then, catching sight of the brightly colored candy aisle, he shouts, “Goo!” Another shopper gives them a dirty look. Sirius, in his wrinkled clothes and week-old stubble, can’t really be bothered to care.

“Yes, chocolate is good, but it’s not for dinner, Harry.” 

“Goo.” 

Because Sirius is now in the habit of taking orders from babies, he turns the shopping cart into the candy aisle, even though he’s fairly certain that Harry doesn’t even know what candy is. 

Harry’s fixation on the aisle is quickly explained once he points to a pair of candy glasses. “Dada,” he says, looking up at Sirius with a proud smile, and Sirius has to stop his heart from leaping out of his chest.

“Yes, Jam—your dada wore glasses,” he says softly, willing himself not to have a nervous breakdown in a fucking ParknShop. “Blind as a bat, that one. Don’t know how he managed to go without them for that week in third year when he was convinced Lily—your mama—wouldn’t give him the time of day because of them.” 

It hurts even to remember this, now. He tears his eyes away from the candy glasses, searching for something, anything, to distract him. The aisle is bursting with color, red and green and blue, overwhelming in its incandescence, in its chaos, and he can feel his breathing become shorter, more labored. His wand digs uncomfortably into his back, and he wants to curl up in a ball, lean against a wall, but no, there’s Harry, looking at him brightly from his seat in the shopping cart. No, he needs to ground himself, focus on one thing, control his breath. Organize his surroundings, that’s what he should do. Take inventory. Count. Five bags of White Rabbit candy, six containers of Royce chocolates, twelve bags of coconut candy, ten pieces of candy shaped like diamond rings, and fuck, he can’t think of that, because rings mean marriage and marriage means James and Lily and James and Lily means—

“Excuse, me, sir, do you need—”

**London, Britain, February 1980**

“—help, Sirius?” 

“What?” Sirius looks up from the singing teddy bear he’s been studying for the past five minutes. It’s astonishingly pink and clutching a stuffed red heart that says “BE MY HONEY.” He wonders how the Muggles got it to work that way. He’s pretty sure it’s not the result of a Singing Charm. It’s too obnoxious for that. 

“Are you just going to stand there, or do you want to actually help, Sirius?” Remus looks at him, his face torn between exasperation and affection. “Lily wants us to buy pickles, strawberry ice cream, pound cake, asparagus, eggplants, tomatoes, rice, and cottage cheese.”

Sirius will never understand the dietary needs of pregnant women. An involuntary shudder goes through him at the thought of Lily eating strawberry ice cream and tomatoes together. Instead of entertaining _that_ idea any longer, he picks up the teddy bear and makes it nuzzle Remus’s nose. Remus pushes it away, raising his eyebrows. “Moony, it’s your present!”

“Sirius, my birthday is in March.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day!” 

“I thought we said no presents?” Remus cocks an eyebrow, and Sirius rolls his eyes. That decision had been purely Remus, after last Valentine’s Day, when Remus had _also_ said no presents and Sirius bought him a Rolex watch made out of pure gold.

“It’s a teddy bear, Remus,” Sirius says, putting the bear back on the shelf and giving it a pat on its blinding pink head. “It costs, what, five pounds? Besides, do you really expect _me_ to get you nothing for Valentine’s Day? Your real present is waiting at home.”

“I could have hoped so,” Remus mutters. “Sirius, you know I can’t afford—”

“Yes, yes, you can’t afford anything good for me, so I shouldn’t buy you anything either, because you’re self-sacrificing like that,” Sirius says. “Moony, I _want_ to spoil you. I want to buy you fancy things and dress you in nice clothes and—”

“Make me your kept man?”

Sirius scoffs. “You couldn’t be a kept man even if I wanted you to be. We’re _dating_. It’s not like I’m trying to buy you a fucking mansion—”

“You would if I let you.”

“Of course I would, Moony, but that’s besides the point. It’s _Valentine’s Day_. At least let me give you gifts today.”

“You’ve already bought them, so I can’t stop you, can I?” Remus says, looking resigned. A brief look of horror passes over his face. “It’s not another Rolex watch, is it?”

“No,” Sirius says, sighing. It would be nice to see that shocked look on Remus’s face again, but if there’s one thing he loves more than surprising Remus, it’s making him happy, and another Rolex watch would not make Remus happy. It’d probably just make him hysterical. “It’s a ‘sensible’ gift. You’ll love it, I promise.”

“I’d love it if you could help me find the strawberry ice cream,” Remus says, smiling, with a firm look that says _you_ will _help me find the strawberry ice cream_.

Sirius sighs. “Fine.” He follows Remus, who steers the shopping cart into the frozen goods aisle of the Tesco. “Pregnancy cravings are so weird.”

“I don’t think strawberry ice cream is very weird, Sirius.”

“Strawberry ice cream and tomatoes and pickles together are very weird,” Sirius says, examining a carton of Haagen-Dazs and tossing it into the cart. 

“I don’t think she’ll be eating them together,” Remus laughs, steering the cart to the check-out. “At least not the ice cream and pickles.”

“The baby book said some women do,” Sirius replies, unable to stop a pout from forming across his face. The baby book had also taught him there was a Muggle invention called an ultrasound which would let parents-to-be know what their child would be like, which Sirius thought was a much better way of going about things than the blood ritual his own parents had used. 

Remus stops pushing the shopping cart and turns around. _“You_ read a baby book?”

“Lily gave it to me as a joke,” Sirius says, flushing. “I only read two chapters.” 

“That sounds more like you,” Remus smiles. “But—I’m glad to see you trying so hard on this. I’m sure Lily appreciates it.”

Sirius shrugs. “Any kid of James is going to need all the help he gets is how I see it. Besides, I don’t want them to regret making me their kid’s godfather, you know?”

Remus smiles, one of the kind, knowing ones. “You’re finally growing up,” he says softly. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m already grown up,” Sirius says, rolling his eyes. “I’m twenty, Moony. That’s plenty old.”

“You know what I mean,” Remus says. He gives a cursory glance around the Tesco and then presses a kiss to Sirius’s cheek. “Now, let’s get back to the flat, and you can show me what outlandish present you got me this year.”

By the time they Apparate back to their flat, Sirius feels like he’s going to go out of his mind with impatience. It had taken ages to check out the strange combination of objects, and the cashier had felt compelled to _flirt_ with Remus, which was both incredibly unprofessional and infuriating, in Sirius’s eyes. He drags Remus into the apartment and onto the couch.

“All right, all right,” Remus laughs. “Now, what is it?”

Sirius rummages under the couch cushions, feeling around for the present. “Here,” he says triumphantly, pulling out the velvet-covered book. He smooths out the wrinkles and straightens the tasseled bookmark and then gently hands it to Remus.

“It’s a photo album,” Remus says softly, opening the book. His look is unreadable, and for a moment, Sirius’s stomach drops. 

“It’s photos of us,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “Well, not just us—there are some of James and Peter and Lily too—but mostly us. I knew you’d get mad if I bought you something really expensive again, so I thought this might be good. Something to remember how handsome and charming we were, you know, when we’re old and grey and toothless. It’s charmed, you see, so if you take your wand to one of the pictures, you’ll hear my voice, and I’ll tell you how much I loved being with you then—how much I love being with you now. I remembered that summer Peter got a camera and took a ton of photos, and I asked Lily for some too, and I owled Marlene and Emmeline, and I thought Caradoc might have some too—”

“I love it,” Remus says, looking up. His eyes are glistening, and then he smiles, that brilliant, broad smile Sirius loves with all his heart. “God, I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Sirius says, and then he presses his mouth to Remus’s, and they fall together like they always have, like two halves of a whole, and he thinks of that Greek myth about soulmates, lonely humans endlessly wandering the face of the Earth in hopes of finding their other half, and he thinks yes, yes, this is it, this is mine, and I’m so lucky, so grateful to have him, I love you, I love you, I love you—

**Aberdeen, Hong Kong, February 1982**

“Sir, do you need help?” Sirius whirls around to find a young salesclerk, looking at him with worried eyes. “Bun dei waa? Zhongwen?” Instantly, he realizes how ridiculous he must look, staring at a rack of candy like it’s murdered his family. 

“Sorry,” he says, stepping back from the aisle. “I’m good for now, thank you.” He gives a weak smile, and that seems to placate the salesclerk, who nods and walks off briskly in the opposite direction. He pushes the shopping cart out of the candy aisle, shaking his head. He needs to just buy the groceries and leave, preferably immediately.

“Dada!” Harry shouts, and Sirius realizes that he’s still holding the candy glasses. 

“You can’t eat that, Harry, it’ll ruin your teeth,” he says, but Harry looks up at him with what Sirius _swears_ are sad eyes—or he’s just going insane, which is looking more likely every minute—and he sighs. “Fine, we’ll get them, but you can’t eat them. We’ll just display them somewhere. It’ll be like a porcelain vase. You can look, but you can’t touch.”

He scoops up the remainder of the groceries—bananas, bok choy, rice, chicken, and canned baby corn—quickly, chattering to Harry all along to avoid losing his fucking mind again. If every other shopper gives him a wary look and a large breadth, so be it. It gets him out of the store quickly enough, and the moment he steps outside, he breathes in the muggy air, sighing.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he says to Harry, who’s still examining the candy glasses like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Supermarkets don’t mesh too well with me, it seems. It’s dinnertime anyway. Back to the flat we go!” He tries to sound cheerful, but he can’t even believe it himself.

Until he steps into the flat, he almost fools himself into believing that he really _is_ fine, that what happened in the supermarket was just a slip-up. But the flat is bright and cozy, with floor to ceiling glass windows and throw pillows and a comfortable couch, and it still all feels wrong. _He_ feels wrong, and he has to focus on his breath again, stop himself from collapsing onto the carpeted floor.

He distracts himself with dinner—mashed potatoes and tofu for Harry, leftover fried rice for himself—and then the hour-long nightly ritual of putting Harry to bed in his crib. He’s not sure if Harry can understand bedtime stories yet, but he tells them anyway: sometimes stories from _Beedle the Bard_ , sometimes the Muggle fairy tales that Lily was so fond of, sometimes dramatized, edited exploits of the Marauders. It helps him, at least, gives him something to do in the emptiness of their apartment as the bustle of the city gives way to lone lights and hushed murmurs in the night.

But then, inevitably, Harry falls asleep, and Sirius is left with only his thoughts for company. 

For the first few weeks, he’d tried going to bed at the same time as Harry, but he quickly found it to be useless. For one thing, Harry fell asleep at seven in the evening, so for five hours, he would just stare at the ceiling, blank and unmoving and cold. For another, Harry woke up at least three times in the middle of the night anyway—sometimes crying for Lily or James, sometimes just crying—and after comforting Harry, Sirius wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for hours, out of both fear and grief. 

At this point, he considers himself lucky when he gets four hours of sleep a night and an afternoon nap in. 

Now, once Harry goes to bed, Sirius makes a valiant effort to watch television and prevent himself from thinking of Halloween night as much as he can. Sometimes, it works; he’s become fond of one variety show program with singers and dancers that comes on nearly every night. Other nights, though, nothing can tear his mind away from the images of James and Lily’s wrecked home, James on his back, staring into the unknowable distance, Lily’s mouth open in an endless cry. 

Tonight is one of those nights, it seems. 

There are things he can do to fill up the time, of course. He can translate more articles for the _Sing Pao Daily News_ into English—after all, he _is_ paid by the column—but it’s not like he really needs the money anyway. He can figure out what he’s going to make for dinner tomorrow night, now that he’s finally topped off what was left of the fried rice. He can finish writing that letter to Remus that he’s been working on for the past four months and finally send it out.

Or, he can, just as he has nearly every night for the past month, talk to the photograph of James and Lily that he keeps on the table near the flat’s entrance like a veritable madman. 

Yes, the last one seems like a wonderful idea.

He hates himself a little bit every time he does it—gingerly removing the photograph from its frame, smoothing out any wrinkles, placing it onto the kitchen table—but he does it anyway. Sometimes, he thinks it helps. Sometimes, he thinks it just makes things worse—but it doesn’t really matter, does it, as long as he keeps doing it, like an addict returning to his dealer with glazed, unseeing eyes.

“Hi James, hi Lily,” he says, careful not to raise his voice and wake Harry. “We went to the supermarket today. It went as well as it could have, I think. We got all the groceries, at least. Harry’s eating some solid food now—well, if tofu is solid. He’s the first kid I’ve ever seen like tofu. Probably your influence, Prongs. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that time you ate a piece of bacon off of the Great Hall’s floor."

He picks up the photograph, studying it. “I think I might be going insane. Fuck, James, why did you make _me_ Harry’s godfather? Couldn’t it have been Moony? He’d know what to do. He wouldn’t be falling apart at the sight of fucking candy. He wouldn’t even have to be here. He’d have sorted everything already.”

He thinks of Remus, using his prefect voice on Dumbledore, on the Wizengamot, explaining everything crisply and concisely, and fuck, just thinking of him—his face, his voice, his smile—makes Sirius want to fall apart. He shakes his head. “Anyway. I still haven’t written to him. He’s sent me letters, though—about one a week, these past few months. Mostly just asking me where Harry is, why I did this, and all of that. I wish you were here, Lily. You’d probably yell at me and tell me I’m being an idiot and to just write him back and explain everything, but—it’s so fucking hard, you know? I should have just sent one back in November. It gets harder every day, because there’s so much I want to say to him, and I can’t say any of it. He probably hates me by now. I would. I’ve been sending him dittany and ginseng, though, after every moon. Some money too. I hope he’s using it.”

He swallows. He’s fairly certain that if he says anything else about Remus, he’s going to burst into tears all over the photograph. “Harry’s doing well, though. Definitely your kid, James—made me buy him candy today. He’s a Marauder in the making already. Don’t worry, Lily, he’s not going to eat it. I’ve put it up on a shelf that he can’t reach. He’s been walking around the flat lately—a real terror. I’ve been trying to baby-proof everything the way you did it, Lily. I hope I’m doing a good job.”

He glances around the apartment, searching for something, anything to talk about, and his eyes land on the newspaper. “The job’s going fine. I still can’t believe they hired me, honestly. All I had to say was that I was fluent in English, Cantonese, and Mandarin, and the interviewer hired me on the spot. I guess they’ve been searching for a translator for a while. Yes, I _know_ I’m not fluent in Cantonese and Mandarin, but I can read it with a Translation Charm, can’t I, and I’m doing my best to learn. After all, I think Harry’s going to need to pick up some Cantonese soon. Mandarin, too, probably, if we’re actually going to stay here. Anyway, they’ve got me translating local news into English, mostly. The weather, restaurant openings, and all that tosh. It’s not very fun, and I honestly don’t think anyone reads it, but I’m making money, at least, just in case the inheritance runs out or the Ministry finally has the good sense to freeze my bank account. And I get to stay in the flat with Harry most of the time, which is nice.”

He sighs, pulling at the edges of his hair. “What else? I’m so fucking terrified, all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life, and I’ve seen Voldemort. I’m not even sure if I’m scared of being caught anymore. I’m scared that—I’m scared I’ll fail Harry, somehow. I’m scared he’ll get hurt, and I won’t be able to do anything. I’m scared he’ll grow up to hate me, that he’ll realize none of this fucking mess would have even happened if it wasn’t for me. I tell him stories every night about you, but I know that’s not the same. He should have you here to take care of him, not me. I can’t even go grocery shopping without fucking it up.” And now there’s a lump in his throat, and he’s tearing up, and that’s a good sign that it’s time to put the photograph away for the night.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “James, Lily, I’m so fucking sorry. If you’re out there—if you’re watching, somehow—please forgive me, if you can.” He feels a tear drip down his cheek, and he swallows hard, willing the lump in his throat to retreat back to where it belongs, tucked far, far away. He looks at the photograph intently, and for a moment, he can almost believe that they’re going to speak, that they’ll rise up from the flatness of the picture, grasping hands, and appear in front of him, enveloping him in a hug—but no, there’s just the photograph, and James and Lily are smiling at the camera forever, forever waving, forever happy, and Sirius is at a tiny kitchen table, falling to pieces. 

He closes his eyes, breathing deeply and blinking away the tears. Then, he stands up from the table and walks over to the doorway, sliding the photograph back into its frame and making sure to smooth out its worn edges. It’s no use pretending that he’s not going to do this again, after all. 

Sighing, he walks into the bedroom, where Harry is, thankfully, still sleeping soundly in his crib. He flops onto the bed and lets himself fall into its soft warmth. He can already see the rest of the night fall into place clearly: an hour or so of sleep, and then another hour comforting Harry, and then, if he’s lucky, two more hours of sleep. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Moony,” he says, his mouth twisted in a bitter smile, and he lets himself imagine that Remus, somewhere, is saying it back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos + comments fuel me!
> 
> also, white rabbit candy is delicious.


	4. Barcelona, 1985 and 1978, and St. Asaph, 1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my bf for helping me edit this chapter + work out some of the finicky details!

**Barcelona, Spain, March 1985**

Remus has always loved routines. 

Routines mean order. Routines mean stability. Routines mean comfort, a rare peace in the face of chaos. 

He’d started creating them when he was six or seven, a short while after he’d been bitten. It was his mother’s idea. For months on end, he’d had shuddering, horrible nightmares about the Wolf, breaking the glass of his bedroom window and climbing in, yellowed teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. Almost every night, he woke his parents up with his screams.

But his mother never complained, only crawled into bed with him, hushing him and rocking him back to sleep. They tried endless healing remedies to put an end to the nightmares, but nothing worked. His father even brought him to a renowned wizarding hypnotist, who pried him with spells and potions every Monday for nearly three months. It had been extraordinarily expensive, and when even that didn’t manage to make a dent in the nightmares—when he left the sessions sobbing more often than smiling—his mother convinced his father that it would be better if they tried using some Muggle techniques instead.

The routines were one of them. To be precise, they didn’t start off as routines—his mother merely suggested that he count things before bedtime. When she was a girl, she counted sheep when she couldn’t fall asleep, she told him, but he didn’t need to do that. He could count dragons, unicorns, or even the toys in his room. 

Looking back, he hadn’t understood what she’d meant. Instead of counting _one toy truck, two toy trucks, three toy trucks,_ he’d counted every toy in his room and committed the order to mind. If he made a mistake, he would start counting all over again. Eventually, he started touching wood at the end of it, like he was sealing away a prayer, even though it was nothing like the Maariv. Even though he eventually discovered that he’d been doing it wrong altogether, it managed to work. The nightmares became less frequent, and the routines more commonplace.

There was the touching wood every time he had a thought that wasn’t Good; there was the knocking on his bedroom door five times every time he entered and exited; there was the way his books had to be placed at just the right angle on his bookshelf. Sometimes, when he was meant to be asleep, he could hear his parents worrying over it in their own bedroom in hushed tones—if it was normal for him to be doing this, to be so fixated on completing these minute rituals. They never talked to him about it, though, and he had a feeling that they hoped the routines, just like the nightmares, would simply disappear on their own.

And for a while, they did. It was hard to keep them up at Hogwarts, especially with roommates like James and Sirius, who left a trail of chaos everywhere they went. And with their inclusion, their friendship, they made him forget—forget about the prayers he had to recite, ones to keep himself, his friends, and his family safe, forget about the way his books had to be ordered, forget about the knocking on his bedpost before he went to bed. 

And then the war started, and everything went to shit. 

The routines came back. The warped prayers expanded in their scope, and he found himself touching wood nearly nightly, as they held vigils for attacks on Muggleborns and mourned the Order’s losses. And this time, even when what seemed like peace came—when Voldemort disappeared, when the war seemed to be won, when Death Eaters were put on trial and locked away from the world—the routines stayed. And they might not be normal or rational, but—they help, somehow. They bring him something close to calm, at least for a few moments.

But there are also other routines, less rituals than patterns, and these are the ones he can think about, sometimes, and not come away convinced of his own illogicality. These are the ones he follows day-to-day, week-by-week. Every morning, he wakes up before nine. He always cooks and eats a small breakfast, usually toast and eggs. Every Wednesday, he sends UCL’s Defensive Runes Department his progress on his current research. Every Thursday, he visits his father in St. Asaph to prepare for Shabbat. Every week, he writes a letter to Sirius, asking him where the fuck he is, even though he rarely receives a response, and on the rare occasions he does, it’s only in the form of dittany, Muggle healing salves, and Galleons that feel far too close to blood money for him to ever take. Every month, he goes to the Ministry to undergo another transformation. Every other month, he visits yet another city or country, searching for Sirius Black and Harry Potter. 

Sometimes, it feels like he’s the only person on Earth still doing so. For a week after that “heart-wrenching” day, as Rita Skeeter so eloquently put it, _The Daily Prophet_ made Harry its main story, its headlines blaring out _The Boy-Who-Lived Kidnapped by Death Eater_ in bold text every morning. But then the Longbottoms were tortured, and a son begged for mercy from his uncaring father, and there was a new scandal to report on, to sensationalize. Even the Muggle newspapers and television shows, after a month of discussions about the “poor Potter boy” and his disappearance, moved on eventually. (One day, there will be true crime obsessives who recount the tale in hushed whispers on their podcasts and teenagers who post theories on Twitter and Reddit and Tumblr, but the Internet is still known as the ARPANET and that day is far, far, away.) After all, the news waits for no one. 

The Ministry cared more, at least for a while. The reward for finding Harry got greater, got grander, and Aurors patrolled Grimmauld Place like it was Voldemort’s own home. And then one overenthusiastic wizard, hoping for a share of the 6,000 Galleon reward, kidnapped a Muggle boy from a public park. Apparently, the wizard was extraordinarily nearsighted and the boy bore a passing resemblance to Harry, but the Muggle authorities didn’t see it that way. After that, any mention of a reward quietly disappeared, and the bulk of Wizarding Britain tried, slowly, painfully, to put the existence of the Boy-Who-Lived out of their minds.

In Remus’s third year, Suzie Morgan, a Ravenclaw first year, didn’t return to Hogwarts after Christmas break, despite being seen by multiple witnesses at King’s Cross, getting ready to board the Hogwarts Express. Her parents gave an exclusive interview with _The Daily Prophet,_ begging the kidnapper, whoever they were, to return their daughter home. It was the talk of Hogwarts for months—who, after all, would be so brash, so brazing, so uncaring, to steal away a _student_ under everyone’s noses? It seemed like an impossible crime. James had crafted a grand plan to find her, one involving broomsticks, the Invisibility Cloak, and a dramatic rescue.

“We’ll be heroes, Moony,” he’d said, grinning. “Can you imagine? We’d be the talk of Britain for _ages_.”

Of course, no rescue ever happened. That June, the Aurors finally found Suzie’s corpse, propped up in the garden shed of her own home. 

After six months, her body was in the final stages of advanced decay. First-year Gryffindor boys, looking to impress their friends, spread countless grisly rumors about the disgusting state of the body far before the sterilized autopsy results were published in _The Daily Prophet._ No murder weapon was ever found, but the crater in the side of her skull was a clear sign of blunt force trauma.

It came out eventually that Suzie’s father, an ill-tempered man, had killed her in a fit of rage and then, horrified by what he had done, hid her body and lied to his heartbroken wife. There were many, many unanswered questions—why would he commit such a gruesome crime, why didn’t he simply vanish the body entirely, could it be that he _wanted_ to be found—but in the end, none of them mattered. Mr. Morgan went to Azkaban, and the school mourned Suzie with a candlelight vigil and a too-brief funeral.

Remus wonders, sometimes, if that’s why the search for Harry has slowed. The Aurors patrolling now, the Ministry officials investigating his disappearance, were all at Hogwarts when Suzie died. They all saw the horrible picture in _The Daily Prophet_ of her skull, one so terrifying that angry letters to the editor from parents were published for weeks afterwards. They all know that the first Auror who saw her mangled body later committed suicide, downing sixteen flasks of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Maybe none of them want to be the ones to find Harry’s skeleton.

But Remus searches. He has for five years, and he’ll keep doing it until he either finds Harry or dies himself. Perhaps he needs to get a regular hobby. Perhaps it’s an unhealthy obsession, though he fancies himself much more like Holmes than Ahab. Perhaps he’s certain, as he has been of few other things in his life, that Harry is alive. 

(And maybe it’s because he believes, despite everything, that Sirius is innocent, because he _needs_ to believe it, and he feels horribly guilty about that.)

And for that reason, he’s in Barcelona, the current city-of-interest—well, former city-of-interest now, given that there’s no sign Harry has ever been here. After three weeks of questioning and visits to the Spanish Ministry, he has absolutely zero leads. Just like the last thirty times. Nothing in Paris, nothing in Frankfurt, nothing in Leeds, nothing in Toulouse. He might as well be searching for a needle in a haystack. At least then he could use a Summoning Charm.

He sighs, looking up at the sky, fading into a watercolor of reds and purples and blues. Barcelona, at least, is a beautiful city. Under any other circumstances, he’s sure he would be enjoying it. He could spend days wandering the winding streets, feeding cantankerous pigeons and admiring fountains. Longingly, he gazes upon a tapas bar, Muggles laughing as they dine on croquettes and patatas bravas, sipping red wine with friends and lovers as the inexhaustible murmur of life fills the air. But he can’t do any of that.

Instead, he needs to pack and ready himself for yet another trip to the International Portkey Terminal. He lets his feet guide him onto the familiar path back to his shabby hostel, past Placa de Lesseps, onto Carrer de Verdi. He shivers as he walks; Barcelona in the evening, even in early spring, is much colder than in the daytime, and his light jumper isn’t warm enough anymore. 

And then he sees it. He remembers these mosaic walls too well, this fairytale tower and these gingerbread houses, nestled in a sea of verdant palm trees, a whimsical fantasy amongst stoic apartment buildings and busy roads. Without thinking twice, he turns and walks into Park Güell.

**Barcelona, Spain, July 1978**

Barcelona is James’s idea. Technically, it’s his father’s, but it wouldn’t have come to pass without James’s approval, so. It’s James’s idea.

Fleamont Potter is a marketing genius and a potions whiz, and he is also deeply interested in Muggle politics—a strange passion for a pureblood. Years later, Remus will realize that it makes sense: Fleamont lived through the Second World War, after all, and not every tragedy in it was the result of Grindelwald. Remus’s own mother, who lost untold numbers of cousins and aunts and uncles in the Shoah, could tell you that. And one day, he will learn that Fleamont walked in the Salt March, alongside Gandhi and Naidu and Mahadevappa, losing untold influence in the Wizengamot for it, and he will think that yes, yes, of course he did.

But at eighteen, to Remus, Fleamont Potter is just James’s slightly eccentric father who wishes to pay a visit to Spain after the nation has finally been freed from Francoist rule. James, of course, wants to go for a different reason entirely: he’s recently become obsessed with the Spanish National Quidditch Team’s seeker and Barcelona native, Miguel Ortiz, who was drafted right out of Beauxbatons. Remus isn’t entirely sure if James _actually_ thinks he’s going to meet Ortiz, but in any case, a few weeks before graduation, James invites him and Peter to join Sirius and the Potters in Barcelona for the summer. 

In their dormitory, Sirius whispers, later, that James had wanted to bring Lily as well, but it turned out that she and her family were visiting relatives in Edinburgh. “And thank Merlin for that,” he says, flopping onto Remus’s bed. “Their soppiness will kill me, I swear.” 

“They’re a new couple,” Remus says, amused. “We were that soppy once too.”

“Yes, but we’re adorable,” Sirius replies, pulling Remus down and into a very sloppy kiss, and Remus can’t exactly argue with that.

Spain is only the second foreign country Remus has ever been to. The first was West Germany, when Remus was eight years old. His grandfather on his mother’s side had passed away after a long battle with kidney disease, and they’d gone to his home city of Frankfurt for the funeral. It had not been a very pleasant experience, to put it lightly.

Barcelona, though, is different. Even though none of them know any Spanish, it all ends up being enjoyable anyway. Fleamont and Euphemia spend most of their time at various museums and political functions, leaving James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus to their own devices. They spend a few days lounging around La Rambla, reveling in the food and music. Peter drags them to the Old City, where the unofficial entrance to the Catalan Wizarding World is located; they unanimously agree that the food there is much better than anything the Leaky Cauldron offers. One Saturday, they go to the beach and spend the entirety of their waking hours in the sun, letting the cool seawater lap at their ankles and tossing around a beach volleyball. Sirius gets sunburned and complains endlessly about it; Remus manages to acquire a surprisingly even tan and is secretly very pleased, not least when Sirius insists on waxing poetic about it. 

Their second-to-last week in Barcelona, Sirius develops an obsession with architecture—well, one architect, really. Antoni Gaudí, according to Sirius, _must_ have been a wizard. 

“After all, just look at that house,” Sirius says, pointing at Casa Mila, whose facade curves dramatically and resembles more a surrealist’s interpretation of a seashell than any livable domicile. “You can’t tell me that’s not inspired by the Ministry at least a little bit.”

“You do realize that Gaudí wasn’t British, right?” Remus asks. “Besides, I thought you of all people would acknowledge that Muggles can be creative without knowing about, you know, magic.”

“Of course they can,” Sirius replies, rolling his eyes. “But you can’t deny that this looks at least a _little_ bit like the Department of Mysteries. And the Sagrada Familia is obviously influenced by Hogwarts.”

“Again, he’s not British,” Remus says, but Sirius’s eyes are dancing, so he doesn’t know if Sirius is being so insistent because he really believes what he’s saying or because he likes to wind Remus up. A bit of both, most likely. 

So Sirius loves Gaudí, and that Friday, he wants to drag them all to Park Güell, Gaudí’s own Garden of Eden. Given that it’s nearing forty Celsius and the sun is beating down on them and they can’t cast a Cooling Charm because the park is swarming with Muggles, Remus isn’t very pleased with this plan. 

“I could go with the Potters to their talk,” he tries to convince Sirius in their hotel room. “It’s about expediting democratic transitions and the role of wizarding society in doing so.”

“Isn’t that what every talk they’ve gone to is about?”

“Well, yes, but that’s because it’s important.” And it’s hot as fucking balls, and even though the talk will probably be incredibly long and he’ll be the only person in attendance under the age of sixty, it sounds far better than wandering a scorching park in search of proof that Gaudí is a wizard. 

“So you’d rather spend time with James’s parents than us, your best friends,” Sirius says flatly. 

“You love Fleamont and Euphemia.”

“You’re right, I do,” Sirius agrees easily. “But still. You’re always such a wet blanket, Moony. We only have a few days left here. Come on, don’t be a bore.”

And that’s Remus, then, the bore, the fucking prefect, the one who wobbles on the cusp of authority and rebellion without ever being given a choice in it, really, because he’s always been the one who old women smile kindly at and the one professors turn to when they lose hold of their classroom. 

“Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll go.” And now Sirius looks concerned, reaching out for his hand, but Remus is inexplicably angry and Sirius never _thinks,_ so he shakes him off and walks out of the hotel room as quickly as he can, taking the elevator down to the lobby without waiting for Sirius. 

On the walk to Park Güell, Remus walks between James and Peter. If Peter gives him a curious, knowing look—these days, he and Sirius are almost inseparable—Remus ignores it and asks Peter about his mother’s community garden instead. He’s aware that he’s blowing this out of proportion, but it’s far too hot to think logically and Remus is sweating out of his t-shirt and Sirius _still_ looks unfairly beautiful and he thinks that Sirius really needs to learn that he can’t always get what he wants, even if he still is, in a way. 

When they finally arrive at the park, James and Sirius are off, probably to give one of the beleaguered Muggle tour guides a conniption, and Peter bounds after them. Because Remus thinks he’s going to stew in his anger at least a little longer, he slows his steps and purposely loses track of them. Instead, he finds his way to a fountain shaped like a salamander and sits down on the limestone stairs surrounding it. 

Remus wants to hate Park Güell, but he can’t, even with sweat dripping down his brow and the sun beating down on his back. He has to admit that it’s beautiful—the delicate mosaics covering nearly every surface, painting them in glittering shades of green and blue, the twisted Greco-Roman columns, the palm trees rising up to greet the cerulean sky. He’s not willing to subscribe to Sirius’s Gaudí-adjacent conspiracy theories, but there _is_ undeniably something magical about this park. The magic of wonder, perhaps, the whimsy and fantasy of it all. 

He sits for what might be minutes or an hour, tracing the paths of clouds in the sky. He’s always been good at waiting, a holdover from post-moon mornings spent at St. Mungo’s as a child. After those day-long appointments, he can certainly wait for Sirius to get tired of the park, which shouldn’t take much longer than a few hours. 

“Hi,” Remus hears, and he looks up to find Sirius, who plops down alongside him unceremoniously. 

“Hi yourself,” Remus replies. “You’re back early. Are you ready to go?”

“We’re not leaving yet, Moony,” Sirius says, rolling his eyes. “It’s barely even been an hour. It’s just—are you mad at me?” He says this while worrying his lower lip, an act that makes him appear truly contrite and far more akin to a puppy in appearance than any eighteen-year-old should have the right to. 

“No,” Remus says unconvincingly, avoiding Sirius’s gaze. He runs a hand through the cool water running out of the salamander’s open mouth, sighing at the relief. 

“You are,” Sirius says, more intently. “You always look like that when I’ve done something or other to piss you off again. At least tell me what I did wrong.” 

“Nothing.”

“Come off it, I know I did _something_ wrong.” Sirius moves closer to him, laying his head on Remus’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry. But please tell me.”

Remus sighs. “You called me boring.” It sounds so trivial, now that he says it, and he doesn’t know how to explain, really, why it hurts so much. 

Sirius looks up, his mouth twisted. “I didn’t mean it.” 

He did. Sirius never says anything he doesn’t mean. But the problem with that is how often Sirius changes his mind, his mercurial nature, so prone to chase after whims and then thoroughly forget about them mere moments later, so he might as well have not meant it at all. 

“I know,” Remus says. “I just wish you would think before you speak.”

“You can do that for me,” Sirius says, smiling. He stretches, leaning back, and his long hair dips into the fountain. Quickly, he sits up, frowning. “Moony, what _is_ this?”

“A fountain.”

“Well, yes, but what’s that?” Sirius gestures at the salamander. 

“That’s—Pete. Pete the salamander. He’s my friend.” Remus reaches across Sirius and gives the salamander a firm pat on its hand. 

“You named a salamander after Peter and not me?” Sirius pulls a face of mock offense. 

“He’s not named after Pete. It’s just a coincidence.” 

“Why not name him something else entirely? We could call him Orestes or Hyacinthus or Odysseus. All of those are much better names.” Sirius’s eyes are full of mirth now, and Remus has to match his smile. 

“He can be named Odysseus and go by Pete as a nickname,” Remus decides. 

“But Pete’s not a nickname for Odysseus. We need a compromise,” Sirius says. Briefly, he stares into space and then snaps his fingers. “We’ll call him Oddy-Pete. Best of both worlds.”

“He’s going to be bullied mercilessly with a name like that.”

“He won’t,” Sirius says. “Not with us as his parents. We’ll hex anyone who tries to pick on him.”

“We’re his parents?”

“Of course. He’s an orphan, and we’ve already named him, Moony. We can’t just abandon him now,” Sirius says, taking Remus’s hand. “He’ll be magical, of course; can’t be anything else, growing up here. We’ll send him to Hogwarts—”

“He’s a Spanish salamander, he’s not going to Hogwarts.”

“We’ll send him to Hogwarts. There’s no rule that salamanders can’t learn. He’ll be a Gryffindor, or maybe a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw, if he really wants to be, but _definitely_ not a Slytherin—”

“He’s a salamander.”

“Yes, and salamanders aren’t snakes, so what’s your point? He’s going to be in Gryffindor, and he’ll be the first salamander to be a wizard, and he’ll take up the space of two whole beds but the house-elves will make it work. He’ll make friends with his roommates and pull salamander-appropriate pranks and make Minnie love him. He’ll be the best at filching candy from Honeydukes and he’ll fall in love.”

“With who?”

“Kettleburn will bring in another salamander for his classes, one made of mosaics just like Oddy-Pete, and that salamander will be the second salamander to be a wizard and be sorted into Gryffindor too. This salamander will be bookish and kind and too sarcastic for his own good, and he’ll love chocolate, and he and Oddy-Pete will fall in love in between pranks and classes and detentions.” Sirius grins and pecks Remus on the cheek, and Remus looks around for tourists with wandering eyes, trying to keep a look of panic from falling over his face. 

“We’re fine, Moony,” Sirius says, as if he knows exactly what Remus is thinking. “This is Spain. They’ll just think we’re particularly affectionate amigos.”

“How you manage to butcher a three syllable word, I’ll never understand,” Remus says. But Sirius is smiling broadly, and the sunlight hits his face in just a way that if Remus was a Romantic poet, he would describe him as _bathed in light, a Raphaelite vision,_ and Remus can’t quite remember his anger anymore, or if he can, it’s faded to the back of his mind, so he kisses Sirius on the cheek quickly and squeezes his hand back.

**Barcelona, Spain, March 1985**

Nearing nine o’clock, Park Güell is nearly empty, with more families exiting through the gates of the park than entering. Balloon sellers and vendors are packing up their wares, a few exceptionally optimistic peddlers still trying in vain to convince unimpressed mothers that they _must_ buy this carved toy for their child. There’s no sun this time, no summer day to bask and sweat in, only the cool wind in the early spring night. 

Remus finds his way to the fountain easily, even seven years later. Oddy-Pete is still there, looking not a day older. It’s a bit of a relief, strangely enough, even though Remus isn’t sure what he expected—it’s not like he could just get up and walk away. 

Now, sitting down on the too-familiar steps, Remus has no idea why he came here. To remember the laughing boy Sirius was? To remember his friends, all six feet under or worse? It sounds pathetic, even to himself. 

He examines Oddy-Pete again. Looking closer, the mosaic tiles seem to have faded a bit, almost imperceptibly. They’re less sapphire than periwinkle, less emerald than wine bottle green. Worn down by time, like everything else. 

“I don’t suppose you have any answers, do you,” Remus says, both to Oddy-Pete and to no one at all. Oddy-Pete looks at him reproachfully, if a salamander fountain can manage to do that, and Remus stands up, dusting off his trousers. He doesn’t think he can bear to stay here any longer. 

He walks back to the hostel quickly, leaving the park and all its memories behind him. There’s the chatter of nighttime, uni students waiting outside clubs and bars, girls pretending to be tipsier than they are, leaning on boys who look at them like they’re the moon and the stars. In a different life, he thinks, one of those boys could be him. In a different life, there would be no dark-haired, impossibly charming boy who haunts his every waking hour, and he speeds past the bars until all the chatter and drunken laughter is gone. 

The hostel, with its half-functioning pipes and creaky beds, is a welcome sight. He gives a tired smile to the girl at the counter, who looks at him all too knowingly. 

He’s never been more grateful to walk into his tiny hostel room and fall into the too-small bed. He sighs, letting his head fall limply onto the hard pillow. He should get packing, but he supposes he could wake up early in the morning to do so instead. All he really wants to do is go to sleep. He turns his head, searching for the weathered nightstand, and then he sees it.

There’s an owl for him. For some reason, this feels all too familiar.

“How did you even get in here?” Remus asks miserably. He looks at the windows, which are very much closed. The owl simply glares at him, like it’s not exactly pleased to be here either. 

“Fine, give me the letter,” Remus says, rolling his eyes and digging into his pocket for a spare Knut. The owl gladly trades the envelope—with a Hogwarts seal, Remus notes dully—for the coin and flies off through the open door. Well, there’s one mystery solved. He hopes that everyone else in the hostel is asleep or just open-minded enough to ignore a bloody owl flying through the hallways.

It’s from Dumbledore. He isn’t sure if that’s a relief or a curse. 

_Dear Remus,_

_I was recently informed that our beloved Ancient Runes professor, Bathsheda Babbling, has decided to take a leave of absence due to personal matters. While she cannot currently provide me with a date for the length of this departure, she has informed me that she will certainly be away for the entirety of the next academic year, and most likely some years to come afterwards as well. As a result, I must actively seek a replacement for this position._

_I recall that you had a particular talent for Ancient Runes during your years at Hogwarts. If my memories serve me correctly, you pursued the subject up to N.E.W.T. level and received the highest marks in your class on the exams. Additionally, Professor Babbling spoke quite highly of your aptitude in the subject and informed me that she personally wrote your recommendation letter for University College London’s Department of Defensive and Protective Runes._

_Professor Babbling and I will be interviewing candidates for this position in the coming months. While you are under no obligation to accept this invitation, of course, I would be pleased to have you as part of our eminent staff._

_If you are interested in this position, please reply to this message with your availability for an interview. I look forward to your response._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Professor Albus Dumbledore_

_Headmaster_

With shaking hands, Remus places the letter on the nightstand. It isn’t an offer, he tells himself, willing himself to slow his breath. It’s just an opportunity, an interview. Besides, he has a feeling the real reason Dumbledore is extending this invitation isn’t the absence of Professor Babbling. Most likely, Dumbledore’s caught wind somewhere that Remus is spending his life searching fruitlessly for Harry and Sirius and sent this letter out of pity. 

But Remus has always wanted to teach. He was always the one to patiently explain magical theories and Ancient Runes decodings and Arithmancy tables to his friends, because even though magic came easily to James and Sirius, who had raw power stored in their veins and their hands and their shining eyes, it didn’t to Peter, who wanted desperately to be just as _good_ _,_ and even if James could transfigure his teacup into a music box with just a wave of his wand it didn’t mean that he could actually discuss _how_ he did that on his exams. 

_Our professor_ _,_ James called him fondly, rustling his hair, and then Sirius would tackle James, _he’s_ my _boyfriend, you tosser, only_ I _can touch his hair,_ and they would get lost in a scuffle under a pile of dirty clothes and Peter would roll his eyes fondly and ask Remus if he could teach him how to turn vinegar into wine again, please and thank you. 

On his seventeenth birthday, Sirius had bought him a briefcase emblazoned with _Professor R. J. Lupin_ _._ It was a gag gift, Sirius insisted, since the real present was an atrociously expensive cashmere sweater, though Remus wasn’t sure anything that cost more than thirty Galleons could truly be considered a gag gift. He’d rolled his eyes at it, the ridiculous snakeskin covering and gilt letters, but secretly, he loved it. Still loves it, despite everything, keeps it next to his desk in his childhood bedroom.

Despite everything. That might as well be his mantra.

His mother had been a teacher as well, before she got sick. She taught at the local secondary school, teaching Year 12s and 13s English Literature. Every afternoon, she would come home in a huff, complaining lightly about how the curriculum was all _wrong,_ it wasn’t any use making her students read Shakespeare if they weren’t allowed to act it out because his plays were always meant to be performed, not silently read, how the headmaster was absolutely ridiculous for forbidding her from teaching _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and Joyce. 

“Why do you stay there if you hate it so much?” Remus had asked when he was about nine years old, and his mother had sighed. 

“I love to teach,” she’d said simply. “I only wish they’d let me teach the way I want to instead of the way the Tories want me to. Besides, if I left, they’d have a teacher who doesn’t even _try_ to fight for their students to learn about the world, and where would they be then?”

And his mother had been a wonderful teacher. She taught him to read poetry, to search metaphors and caesuras for meaning, to love Tennyson and Woolf and Eliot. She taught him to find beauty in nature and friendship and the splintering cracks in the floorboards of their house. His father may have taught him to cast charms, but his mother taught him to create through words and rhythms, just as magical and beautiful as any Patronus. 

He imagines himself standing at the front of the Ancient Runes classroom, ready to scrawl equations and translations on the blackboard—imagines himself tutoring students, helping them sort out their homework, fostering in them a love of words and magic and learning. Imagines himself guiding class after class of aspiring students into a brighter future, showing them the pure beauty in translation and language and discovery. It’s almost too much to bear. 

He sighs and tosses Dumbledore’s letter onto the ground, not bothering to see where it lands. He’ll have to make a decision soon, but his head hurts and his heart hurts and all he wants to do is go to sleep. He turns over on his side, pulling the pillow over his head and counts sheep and trucks and balls of dust. 

That night, he dreams of salamanders who laugh at him and runes spinning around in a room made out of mosaics, runes for love and tragedy and hope. 

**St. Asaph, Wales, March 1985**

Two months after Hope Lupin died of cancer, her husband took a wand to his head and Obliviated himself.

Remus had been the one to find him. He’d gone to see his father for Shabbat, even though it hurt every bone in his body to be in his childhood home and have his mother’s absence permeate every corner, every hidden nook. When he walked into the cottage and saw his father in his rocking chair, eyes glazed, a steaming Pensieve next to him, he’d grabbed his father’s hand and Apparated to St. Mungo’s. 

At first, he hadn’t known what was wrong. He thought, maybe, that his father was sick, or worse, that the Death Eaters had gotten to him, cursed him with some horrible, tortuous spell, and he paced the floor of St. Mungo’s waiting room, made pleading, desperate prayers as his heart beat out of his chest and he thought _please, God, I’m only twenty, please don’t take both of them from me_ and then berated himself, because death _had_ taken both of James’s parents and he was still surviving, wasn’t he, only Remus thought that if he had to bear this along with everything else he’d probably just collapse upon himself and sleep forever. 

Sirius had found him less than a half hour later, while Remus was still pacing the floor and biting at his fingernails and observing, detached, that the cuticles on his right hand were starting to bleed. Sirius had gently peeled Remus’s hand away from his mouth and guided him to a chair, where Remus fell asleep fitfully on Sirius’s shoulder and Sirius didn’t complain even though his shoulder had almost certainly gone numb. 

That was how the Healer found them, hours later. “Mr. Lupin?” she’d asked, looking tired and worn.

“Remus,” he corrected. “How is he?”

“Would you happen to have your father’s wand?”

“He does,” Sirius said, his voice hoarse, and how had Remus not realized Sirius was crying, and how had he not realized that he was still clutching his father’s wand in his left hand?

“May I see it?” Remus nodded, and the Healer took the wand gingerly from him. _“Prior Incantato.”_

“As I suspected,” the Healer said grimly. “Mr. Lupin—”

“Remus.”

“Remus, your father is suffering from spell damage inflicted by a Memory Charm. We believe the damage to be self-inflicted, especially now that I’ve had the chance to examine his wand.”

“What?” It made no sense, except it made too much sense, and Remus clutched the edge of his seat tightly. “Could—could it have been from someone else? There’ve been a lot of Death Eater attacks recently, I’m sure you know, and—”

“The damage to his memory is consistent with the pattern associated with self-inflicted Memory Charms,” the Healer said gently. “Remus, I’m sure you know the two principles of magic—”

“Incantation and intent.”

“Exactly. With Memory Charms, intent is especially important. While those who are caught on the receiving end of a Memory Charm cast by another individual will often have gaps in their memory, those who cast Memory Charms on themselves will find the results to be far more precise. In your father’s case, he has retained all of his motor skills, including his fine motor skills, yet he possesses no memories of his life.”

The Healer looked at him, her face kind. “Remus, have there been any sudden changes in your father’s life recently?”

“My mother died,” Remus croaked out, and the Healer nodded.

“I thought so. Self-inflicted Memory Charms aren’t as rare as some might have you believe. After suffering tragedies, some individuals may choose to relieve their pain by forgetting it entirely.”

“There was a Pensieve next to him,” Remus realized, and the Healer’s face grew even grimmer. 

“We’ll retrieve what memories we can, Remus,” the Healer said. “Would you mind giving us your father’s address?” 

For three months, his father stayed at St. Mungo’s as the Healers pieced his memory back together—what was left of it, anyway. The memories he’d poured into the Pensieve stopped abruptly when Remus was just about to turn eleven, or around the time his mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. 

What struck Remus was how meticulous, how _systematic_ his father’s destruction of his own memories had been. The only memories the Healers were able to retrieve were the happy ones, ones where his mother was smiling and beautiful and whole. Even the purchase of a Pensieve must have taken a great deal of time and money—the only other place Remus had ever seen one was Dumbledore’s office. 

For those three months, Remus visited his father nearly every night. It felt familiar, almost, the clinical white-washed walls, the brisk click-clack of shoes on the tiled floors as Healers rushed to their patients, the endless, monotonous waiting. It struck him, on one of those nights, that illness ran in the Lupins, just as madness ran in the Blacks, as Sirius had so eloquently pronounced one day years back—first himself, then his mother, and now his father. Maybe they were doomed to live their days in and out of hospitals, staring at blank walls and eating flavorless rice pudding. 

At the time, he found it enormously funny, though that could have been the sleep deprivation. Sirius, though, only frowned when Remus told him this. 

“It’s disgusting what he’s done, really,” Sirius said, his fists tight in the way they always were when Sirius was itching for a fight. “Forgetting about the last ten years, like you don’t even matter at all. He’s forgotten _you,_ everything you did at Hogwarts and everything you’re doing now, at UCL and for the Order and everyone else. And you’re going to have to take care of him—oh, don’t look at me like that, I know you will, you’re so fucking self-sacrificing all the time—when he should be looking after you. He’s your _father._ ”

“He was hurting,” Remus said simply, because Sirius couldn’t understand what his parents had been to each other, how his father’s face had lit up every time his mother walked into the room, how her mother was the only person on Earth who could bring his father out of his shell, how they grew peonies and sweetpeas in the backyard together and spent their Friday nights at the only dance hall left in St. Asaph, spinning each other around like they were decades younger than they actually were. 

Sirius scoffed, but he had dropped the matter duly. A few weeks later, Remus brought his father back to the cottage in St. Asaph. The Healers told him that there wasn’t much else they could do for him, that the rest would be up to his father—to relearn everything he’d consciously forgotten, to fill in the ten-year gap. 

“Don’t be afraid to correct him,” one of the Healers advised him. “Make sure he knows he’s living in the present, not the past. It will hurt him, but he’ll never recover otherwise.”

He hears those words echoing in his mind as he walks up the familiar path to his father’s cottage. He has a feeling that he should look forward to these weekly Shabbat dinners more than he does. No matter what the man in the rocking chair has forgotten, he’s still his father. 

Except when he’s not. When Remus opens the door, his father is out of his rocking chair in a flash, and mere seconds later, he has his wand pressed to Remus’s throat. “Who the hell are you? Where are my wife and son?”

And yes, that’s why Remus hates coming to St. Asaph for Shabbat. Because it feels, sometimes, like his father doesn’t _want_ to remember, if the way he constantly forgets what year he’s living in is any indication. 

“I’m Remus, your son,” he says, not even trying to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. “It’s 1985. Mum is gone.”

His father’s face crumples, and his wand falls from his hand. Remus sighs. “How are you doing?”

His father ignores him and sinks back into his rocking chair again, looking far older than fifty-six. Remus watches as he rocks, back and forth, back and forth, as if the rhythmic motion will give him the answers he seeks. His father stares into space, and not for the first time, Remus wonders just how much he remembers. 

There’s nothing to do besides prepare tomorrow’s dinner, then. He finds chicken in the refrigerator and makes a stock out of it, dicing up celery and carrots, then simmers the soup slowly on the stove. He’s terrible at making kugel, but he tries anyway.

Even as a child, his favorite part of preparing Shabbat dinner was making challah. He loved feeling the dough under his hands, rolling it out into long twists and braiding them together with his clumsy hands. His mother had taught him to make it, of course. The challah she made was beautiful, golden brown and soft to the touch.

The challah Remus makes isn’t nearly as perfect, he knows, but it serves its purpose. He takes it out of the oven, covers it with the cloth in the breadbasket, and then searches for something they can eat tonight. There’s some vegetable soup left in the refrigerator, and he quickly warms it up on the stove. 

They eat dinner in near silence, but for the clink of his father’s spoon against his ceramic bowl. His father’s hand has a small tremor now, and Remus wonders, not for the first time, if that will be him one day, spending his days in and out of a rocking chair, lost in the convolutions of his own mind. 

“Dumbledore wants me to go to Hogwarts,” Remus starts carefully, finally breaking the silence. His father sets down his spoon, and for what might be the first time that night, looks up at Remus. 

“Good,” his father says. “You’re no less magical than anyone else, do you hear me? Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”

And fuck, his father thinks Remus is eleven again, getting ready to go to Hogwarts for the first time. He thinks Remus is a student still. He shouldn’t have expected otherwise. 

He should correct him, tell him that he’s been offered a position, that he might get the chance to teach. His father won’t recover otherwise, after all, will keep wallowing in what memories he has of a life long past. But—

It’s so tiring to, when he knows that his father will forget anyway, construct his own reality in the safety of his mind. “Thank you,” he says instead, and stabs his fork into a large piece of carrot. 

That night, lying in his childhood bed, unwanted thoughts of Sirius flooding his head, he wonders if he would ever do what his father did, forget all the painful parts of the past. He would take out Halloween of 1981 first, the entirety of November as well. No, even better—take out all of that autumn, all the battles and curses and pain. Take out his mother’s death, his father’s Obliviation. Take out Voldemort too, and the Death Eaters. Take out Snape, take out Sirius, so casually cruel at sixteen (always so casually cruel), whispering to Snape that if he really wanted to know where Remus went, he could always press the knot on the Whomping Willow. Take out all the little arguments, every disagreement that gnawed at him the wrong way. Leave himself with only the good, the laughter, the soft, stolen kisses and smiles and beauty.

But that wouldn’t be right, would it, because there would be gaps, would always be gaps, then. Because there’s a cause to every effect, and he can’t live in only the aftermaths. 

He sighs, rubbing his temples. He’s come to one decision in the past day, at least—he’ll owl Dumbledore and tell him he’s available for an interview at any time, that he’s overjoyed at the opportunity to teach. 

And there’s one stop left on his long list of locations that he’s been winding down over the past four years, places he’s scoured for traces of Sirius and Harry. The likelihood he’ll find them there is close to zero, but he might as well try. 

He’ll spend the next three days in Wales, enduring yet another uncomfortable Shabbat with his father. And then he’ll book a Portkey for Hong Kong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out pictures of park güell + casa mila if you want to see some gorgeous examples of gaudí's architecture. he's basically barcelona's favorite son. 
> 
> the parts with remus's compulsive tendencies are solely based off my own. 
> 
> also, i've come to realize that the title for this story is probably too lighthearted for how Sad this fic is, but i think i'm kind of stuck with it? is there an ao3 tag for "this story is sadder than it looks, and i'm sorry"?
> 
> as always, kudos + comments fuel me! :D


	5. Hong Kong and Hogwarts, 1985 and 1976

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: homophobia in the hogwarts section

**Aberdeen, Hong Kong, March 1985**

Sirius has never been much of a worrier. He’d always left that to Remus.

He finds himself worrying almost daily now, though, mostly about Harry—why Harry isn’t eating his spinach, why Harry refuses to brush his teeth, why Harry thinks it’s a good idea to jump off of a moving swing.

Harry lets out another sharp cry, and Sirius runs over to him as fast as he possibly can. Harry’s clutching his knee as he rocks back and forth on the bright red pavement of the neighborhood playground, and Sirius sighs.

“Where does it hurt, Harry?” he asks, helping Harry roll up the cuff of his pants. 

“Everywhere,” Harry says, his bottom lip wobbling, and Sirius readies himself for Harry to burst into tears. 

“Where’s everywhere?” he asks, and Harry points at his knee, where there’s a rapidly fading bruise, disappearing far more quickly than any normal injury should. Thank Merlin for accidental magic, honestly. 

Still, Sirius digs into his pocket for the Tiger Balm he carries around everywhere now, since Harry doesn’t seem to have developed the instinct that says “run away from and not towards trouble” yet, and smears it over Harry’s knee. “Harry, how many times have I told you not to jump off the swings?”

Harry screws up his face in thought, and then declares, jutting out his chin, “Zero.”

“I told you five times today at least,” Sirius says, sighing, and Harry gives him a deceptively innocent look, _did you really, I must have forgotten,_ and in that moment he looks so much like James, caught by Filch after a prank gone south, that Sirius has to stop himself from crying all over the slides. “Do you want to keep playing?”

Harry nods eagerly, as if he’d never fallen off the swings at all. 

“Go on, then,” Sirius says, waving his hand, and Harry runs back to the swing set. Hopefully, he’s learned his lesson about not jumping off of rapidly moving objects. By the way he’s eyeing the swings, though, it doesn’t look like he has. 

“Children never listen,” a fond voice in Cantonese says, and Sirius turns around to find a woman who looks to be in her sixties standing behind him. 

“Which one’s yours?” He winces involuntarily at how accented his Cantonese still is, but if the woman notices, she doesn’t comment on it. 

“The one over there,” she says, pointing to a boy who looks to be around Harry’s age trying desperately to scrabble up to the top of the slide. “His name is Lucas.”

“Mine’s Harry,” Sirius says, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face as Harry helps hoist the other boy up to the platform of the plastic slide. “He’s turning five soon. What about your son?”

“Oh, he’s not my son,” the woman laughs. “He’s my grandson, actually, though he’s also turning five in a few months. I take care of him when his mother’s at work.”

“I’m Stephen,” Sirius says, extending a hand to the woman. After four years, it’s still strange to not introduce himself by his actual name, even to Muggles he’ll likely never see again. And, to ensure that she likes him, “You’re remarkably beautiful for a grandmother, by the way.”

“You don’t need to flatter me,” she says, rolling her eyes but shaking his hand anyway. “I’m Jinjing. Have you lived in Hong Kong for very long?”

“Can you tell I’m not a local?” Sirius says, forcing down the panic rising in his throat. No, she couldn’t have found out, especially if she’s a Muggle. 

“Oh, it’s just the way you look at everything,” she says with a smile. “Like it’s all new and beautiful to you.”

That’s a relief, then. Much better than her realizing that Sirius is actually a suspected kidnapper on the run. “We’ve been here for almost four years now,” he says. “My family grew up on the mainland.” Only half a lie; his mother spent most of her pre-Hogwarts summers in the Black family’s siheyuan in Beijing. Sirius has never been there.

“How are you liking Aberdeen?” 

“It’s wonderful,” he says, and thankfully, that doesn’t have to be a lie at all. “The weather’s much better here than in Britain, obviously, and it’s nice having so many markets and shopping centers near us. It’s very convenient.”

And it’s nice to be away from everything, in the end. In the broad daylight, with the sun filling every corner with light and the streets bustling with businessmen and shopkeepers and tourists, he doesn’t have to think about Voldemort or Death Eaters or Peter. 

Here, he can watch as Harry pulls Lucas up by the hand when the other stumbles, listen to Harry’s laughter as he struggles to conquer the monkey bars, think about what he’ll make for dinner and how the hell he’s going to teach Harry Hindi when Sirius himself only knows the few phrases he picked up those two glorious years he lived with the Potters. 

And if late at night, the ghosts of the past flood back, at least they only come when the sun has faded and the city’s noise has dulled to a low buzz.

“Baba!” Harry calls, and Sirius swallows hard. Even now, he feels his heart drop into his stomach nearly every time Harry calls him that. When Harry was two, he called Sirius Padfoot—or, to be more accurate, Pafoo—but it quickly became clear that Sirius also needed a nickname Harry could call him outside of the house. 

And he won’t—can’t—let Harry call him dad, because James is, will always be Harry’s father, and he can’t let Harry forget that. 

So he’s baba now, or what Sirius might have called his own father had Orion Black not been the human equivalent of a dumpster fire. Occasionally, it doesn’t even hurt to hear the words come out of Harry’s mouth.

“All right, Harry?” Harry’s tugging Lucas along now, and the two stumble their way over to Sirius and Jinjing, twin smiles spread across their faces. 

“This is Lucas,” Harry announces. “We’re friends now. We made friendship bracelets.”

Harry holds out his right arm, which has a bundle of willow leaves tied around it. Lucas has a similar bundle around his left arm, all knots and tucked-in stems. 

“We’re _best_ friends,” Lucas corrects, and Harry nods eagerly. 

“Well, Stephen, I suppose we’ll have to be friends too, then,” Jinjing says, smiling. “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?”

Actually, he would. It’s more than a bit embarrassing, but he hasn’t had a proper conversation with an adult in weeks, maybe months. Sure, he talks to the cashiers at the ParknShop, and he has occasional discussions with his boss about translating idioms and fixing margins and the like, but he hasn’t talked to a friend in person since—well. Since 1981, unless you count Harry. 

Also, he doesn’t have any rice left, and he’s too tired to make another grocery run today. 

“I’d love to,” he says, making sure that his smile is a genuine one. “Where do you live?” 

“Oh, just in the building over there,” Jinjing says, and, to Sirius’s surprise, points to the apartment complex right next to his own. 

“I guess we’re neighbors,” Sirius says, grinning. “Well, what time should we be over?”

Sirius spends the rest of the afternoon trying to corral Harry into a collared shirt. He finds an old bottle of wine he can’t remember buying in the kitchen cabinets, and at six o’clock sharp, he shows up outside Lucas and Jinjing’s apartment, wine and Harry in hand.

“Welcome!” she says, bustling them into the living room. “I’m just finishing up the trout, but everything will be ready soon. We’re so glad to have you! Lucas has been talking about Harry for hours.”

“I’ve got Legos!” Lucas announces, and Harry’s eyes widen with glee. They quickly run off into another room, whispering and giggling, and Sirius aches a little, because Harry’s made his first friend already, and all Sirius remembers of his own childhood is stiff dress robes and nights spent crying in the corner of the family library. But Harry’s happy, at least, so that makes Sirius feel something close to happiness too. 

And then Sirius is left alone in the living room, and he takes the time to study his surroundings. Jinjing’s decorating style is, to say the least, interesting. The throw pillows on the wood-carved settee are embroidered in gold thread with dragons and flowers, and there’s an astonishingly red carpet adorning the floor. On top of the cabinet holding the television, Sirius can spot an array of porcelain vases and family photos. None of it goes together, but it feels homely nonetheless. Maybe Sirius should buy some throw pillows too. 

“Dinner’s ready!” Jinjing calls, and Harry and Lucas come stomping in, clamoring onto the plastic stools surrounding the kitchen table. Their heads barely reach the top of the table, and Sirius can’t help but laugh.

“Up you go, Harry,” he says, hoisting Harry onto a taller chair as Harry tries unsuccessfully to squirm his way out of Sirius’s grip.

“I’m not a baby,” Harry says, pouting, and Sirius ruffles his hair.

“I know,” he says simply. Harry rolls his eyes and shoves a steamed bun into his mouth in lieu of speaking. 

“You’re very good with him,” Jinjing remarks. 

“I try my best,” Sirius shrugs. Lily would be better at all of this, he’s sure, but he’s trying.

Dinner goes by quickly; Harry and Lucas shovel food into their mouths at an astonishing speed. Sirius, as always, has to pick all of the fish bones out of Harry’s trout, and Harry doesn’t end up eating more than two bites of it anyway. The moment Harry’s plate is clear, he begs to play Legos with Lucas again, and with a fond wave of the hand, the two boys disappear again.

Jinjing is good company. Sirius learns that she’s always been a single mother, with a husband that died in the Second World War while she was pregnant. Her daughter works in the Central District as a bank teller for HSBC. Jinjing takes care of Lucas on days when his mother’s working late.

Sirius tells her what he can about himself—or rather, Stephen. He talks about his translation duties, Harry’s favorite foods, and what television programs he’s watching, always mindful to not let too much slip. Somehow, though, they find their way to the topic of Harry’s mother—or rather, his lack of one. 

“If you don’t mind me asking—”

“It’s just us,” Sirius says. He’s gotten used to this question, largely from prying store clerks. “His mum died a few years back, so we moved here. She was from India. We met at boarding school, whirlwind romance, and all that.”

“What was she like?”

Somehow, that’s the first time he’s ever been asked that. He could talk about Lily, but that feels wrong. So—

“She loved to read,” he says, thanking Merlin for the lack of gendered pronouns in Cantonese. “Poetry especially—lots of Plath, lots of Eliot. She could never get her head out of a book. And she was mischievous, even if she didn’t want to show it. It’s always the quiet ones, you know, who have the best ideas. She was beautiful, but she never believed it when I told her that. She was ill for a long time, actually, but she—she didn’t let it kill who she was. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known.” 

And he misses Remus like a lost limb—the ache duller now, but still there, every moment of every day. 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Jinjing says gently, placing her wrinkled hand over his. 

“It’s fine,” Sirius says, his voice breaking just too much to be noticeable. “It’s just a bit harder, this time of year. Last week was her birthday. She—she would have been better with Harry than I am.”

“That’s not true,” Jinjing says, her gaze piercing. “From what I can tell, you’re doing a great job.”

“I hope so,” he says quietly, and thankfully, Jinjing doesn’t push the topic further.

“How did you two get together?”

“What do you mean?”

“You and your wife—how did it happen?”

“Well, I said we met at boarding school already,” Sirius starts. “I don’t think it’s all that romantic a story. We were friends first. We had a horrible argument, actually, and then, somehow, I ended up telling her how I felt.”

**Hogwarts, Scotland, October 1976**

It’s too cold for October, and as Sirius walks up the winding path from Hogsmeade, it begins to pour, great buckets of rain that drench him from head to toe.

It’s just his luck, really. Bad enough that he had to go to Hogsmeade with Janine Hartford, because Peter said that Janine was Mary’s friend and had just been broken up with and Mary couldn’t find any way to cheer her up, and please, Sirius, I really like Mary and it’d be great if you could do me a favor this time, please? Bad enough that Janine was under the impression that Sirius was doing this willingly and decided it would be utterly romantic to snog him in the middle of Madam Puddifoot’s. 

At least it’s a full moon. He never feels more free than when he’s Padfoot, running through the deep recesses of the Forbidden Forest. It helps steady him. He’s already counting down the hours until nightfall. 

After what seems like an eternity, the castle gates come into sight. He shakes the rain droplets out of his hair as he walks in, the warmth of the entrance hall enveloping him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Snape, lounging against the brick walls in an artificially nonchalant manner, and Sirius feels a smile spread across his face. Maybe things are looking up after all.

“All right, Snivellus?” he says, walking by Snape. “Waiting up for anyone?”

Snape sneers at him, and Sirius feels his heart fill with glee. “You see, I was under the impression that most girls aren’t interested in dating dungeon bats,” Sirius continues. “But maybe I thought wrong. Got yourself a good little pureblood, Snivellus? I know you’re just begging for it.”

“I hardly think you have anything worthwhile to contribute to this,” Snape says, his eyes glittering. “Off groping Hartford in Hogsmeade, pretending to be what we all know you’re not.”

There’s something dark and terrible in Snape’s eyes, and Sirius feels as though his heart will drop out of his chest. He’d rather die than let Snape get the better of him, though, so he pastes the smirk back onto his face. “I think you ought to know some things about pretending, Snivellus. You’re not waiting for some Slytherin fifth year, are you. No, you’re waiting for Evans, even though she won’t even look you in the eye anymore. You carry on like you’re the prince of Slytherin, calling Muggleborns slurs and spouting all that pureblood tosh, but you’re in love with Evans, and you can’t let your little friends know that, can you, because she’s everything they hate. She went with Bell to Hogsmeade today—awful kind, that one, and isn’t he a prefect? They must do rounds together all the time, and—”

“Shut up,” Snape hisses. “Shut your mouth, you fucking queer.”

And part of him wants to run away now, but he’s frozen to the castle floor, and Snape can’t know. No, he can’t. No one would have told him. He’s just being Snivellus, being an awful git, so Sirius sets his mouth into a firm line. “Some projection there, Snivellus? I’m not the one who can’t get a date.”

But Snape doesn’t look offended now; no, he looks almost predatory, his dark eyes glinting. “No, Black, I think I’m right. Your brother told us something _very_ interesting last week. You see, while you went around crowing that you ran away because you were too good for your family, carrying on like a martyr, you aren’t any of that, are you. No, you left home because your mother caught you at one of her dinner parties, on your knees for Rosier, trying to turn him queer too. You’re a cocksucker and a coward, Black, and you’ll never be anything but that.”

Sirius laughs. “I didn’t make Rosier do anything.” If anything, it was the opposite; Sirius had gotten steadily drunk throughout the evening, throwing back Merlot to drown out Abraxas Malfoy’s incessant chatter. At some point, his mother had guided him out of the dining room altogether, calling him a disgrace and a blemish on the House of Black—nothing he’d never heard before, of course. 

Somehow, he made his way onto the floor of his bedroom, and that was how Evan Rosier found him—red-cheeked, hair loose, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes bright and his head spinning. 

(He ignores the part about Regulus, because his brother would never have told anyone about what really happened that muggy, horrible July night. Not with his mother’s preoccupation with saving face, pretending that she never had a son named Sirius at all. No, it must have been Rosier, or maybe one of his cronies—maybe Mulciber, who’s cruel and indelicate enough to do so. Not Reg, never Reg.)

“What, Snivellus, are you worried?” He steps closer to Snape, batting his eyelashes. Snape looks at him with unmasked hatred in his eyes. Sirius loves it. “Why, when I saw you on this fine evening, Monsieur Snape, I found you simply irresistible. Or would you prefer I call you _Sev,_ maybe?”

In an instant, Snape pushes him away harshly, and Sirius stumbles, lost in snorting laughter. “I hardly think I’m your type, Black,” Snape says coolly. “Maybe Potter will appreciate—this.” 

“James?” Sirius can’t even stop the loud laugh that comes out of his mouth. “You know, Snivellus, I’ve never thought of you as a comedian before, but you’re a right laugh. Well, I’d better be on my way, Snivellus. Always nice chatting with you.” He moves to leave, but this time, Snape blocks him. 

“No, it’s not Potter, is it,” Snape muses, his smile dangerous. “No, it’s Lupin.”

And now Sirius’s heart does drop, and he feels as though he’s going to be sick. Everything feels muted, the grey walls blending into each other, and his legs feel horribly loose and his voice seems to have disappeared altogether. “Remus? No fucking way, not Remus,” he manages to croak out, but he can hear the weakness in his denial, and Snape keeps going.

“Yes, it all makes sense now, doesn’t it? You fawning over Lupin like he’s a delicate damsel all the time, holding his books for him and crawling all over him. He doesn’t know, does he—he wouldn’t let you do any of that if he knew you were a queer.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, so keep your fucking mouth shut,” Sirius snaps. 

“I think I know perfectly well what I’m talking about. You know, I think Lupin went with McKinnon to Hogsmeade last spring, and I saw them together again today at the Three Broomsticks,” Snape says, looking thoughtful. “I’ve never thought of them together, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? She complements him. He reigns her in, and she helps him let go. It works perfectly.”

And in that moment, Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone more than Snape—not his mother, not his father, not even Voldemort himself. And the worst thing is, Marlene _does_ complement Remus, doesn’t she? She’s carefree and beautiful and witty, and on more than one occasion, Sirius has thought that if he had to switch bodies with someone for a day, it would be Marlene, because they get along so well, share so many little mannerisms, that no one would even notice. 

And Remus doesn’t know how Sirius feels, of course. No one knows how Sirius feels. 

“Look, Snivellus, just keep out of other people’s business, will you?” Sirius grips his wand tighter, spins it around in plain sight of Snape. He won’t hex him, not with professors milling around mere meters away, but he can make Snape _think_ he will.

“Maybe that’s where you go each month,” Snape says, his lips twisted in a cruel smile. “You watch McKinnon and Lupin, wishing you could have what they do, don’t you? Watch Lupin turn into an _animal._ They’ll be going at it all night, won’t they?”

And maybe Snape does know, and maybe he doesn’t, but Sirius can’t take this anymore. “Look, Snivellus, you want to find out where we go every month? Go to the Whomping Willow tonight. There’s a knot on it—press it, and it’ll freeze the branches. And then you’ll know everything you’ve ever wanted to, you fucking pervert.”

Snape’s mouth drops open—in shock or delight, Sirius can’t tell—and Sirius takes the opportunity to push past him, knocking Snape with his shoulder for good measure. He’s running late now; he still has to change out of his robes and head back down to the Shack in time for moonrise. 

He doubts that Snape will actually go to the Willow. He’s far too much of a coward. And if he does, well—hopefully, he’ll get whomped, let the Willow live up to its nickname. That’ll teach him a lesson about wedging his way into other people’s lives. 

He’s still fuming when he walks into their dorm room, yanking off his tie and flopping face-first onto his bed. The room is devoid of all its other residents bar James, who’s on his knees and rustling around in his trunk. Sirius prays that he hasn’t managed to misplace the Invisibility Cloak again. Sirius lets out a groan, which is only partially muffled by his pillow.

“What’s got you in a strop?” James asks, looking at him with amusement. 

“Snivellus,” Sirius says bitterly, lifting his head. “I ran into him on my way up, and the fucking prick started going on about Reg and Moony. You know how he is.”

“He’s got no right,” James says, shaking his head. “Ignore him. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Yeah, well,” Sirius shrugs, rolling over and tossing his pillow to the other side of the room. It lands unceremoniously on the edge of Peter’s bed. “I couldn’t hex him, not that close to the Great Hall, so I told him how to get past the Willow. A good whomping would do him a world of good.”

James freezes and looks up at Sirius, a look of horror spreading across his face. “You told him how to get past the Willow?”

“Yeah?”

“Sirius, are you insane?” James all but shouts. “It’s a full moon.”

“I know that,” Sirius scoffs. “He’s not actually going to do it. He’s all talk. And even if he does, there’s no way he’ll actually get into the Shack. Even Wormtail couldn’t—not the first time, at least. If he gets hit by a branch, good. Nothing Pomfrey can’t fix.”

“But what if he does?” James says, pacing across the floor. “What if he gets past it, Sirius? Did you even stop to think about that? He’ll find out about Moony—no, worse, he might be _killed._ ”

“He won’t,” Sirius says, but he can hear the uncertainty in his own voice. “James—”

“Forget it,” James snaps, pulling on his cloak. “Don’t come tonight. You’re obviously not in the right state of mind. I’m going after Snape.”

He watches from the safety of his bed, stunned, as James whirls out of the room, determination and fear in his eyes. No, Snape won’t go to the Shack—of course he won’t. Snape doesn’t have a courageous bone in his body. And if Snape does know, with all his sly words and insinuations, he still can’t be _stupid_ enough to go after a werewolf.

 _But what if he is,_ a traitorous part of his brain whispers. What if Snape has gone down to the Willow and somehow managed to press the knot, to freeze its wild branches? There are actual demons that Sirius would rather have know about Remus than Snape. 

He clenches his fists so tightly that his fingernails leave marks in his palms, and he tries fruitlessly to slow his panicked breathing. His surroundings have gone hazy again, and somehow everything seems _louder,_ but not more vibrant, no—more like a terrifying sort of loudness, where he can hear the laughter of students down in the Common Room, and it might as well be as piercing, as relentless as a violent thunderstorm, with the way his head is pounding.

He doesn’t know how long he’s up there, alone in the dorm room, listening to the sounds of the night. It could be minutes. It could be hours. But eventually, the door opens, and on the other side is McGonagall, her eyes stern and her mouth grim.

“Mr. Black, Professor Dumbledore would like to see you,” she says, and somehow, Sirius manages to scoop himself out of the bed, to walk down the stairs leading out of the dormitory, out of the Common Room, avoiding the curious gazes of his fellow Gryffindors, to find his way, shivering from fear and cold, into Dumbledore’s office.

The rest of the night is a blur. He knows that in Dumbledore’s office, he not only found the headmaster, but also James and Snape, Snape with a look of horror and hatred on his face, James looking angrier than Sirius has ever seen him. He knows that Dumbledore tells him that James managed to stop Snape before he properly found his way into the Shack, that Snape only caught a glimpse, at most, of Remus, mid-transformation. He knows that Snape has been sworn to secrecy, to not tell anyone else what he’s discovered. He knows that James is commended by Dumbledore for his bravery. He knows that he’s been given detention for the next three months, that his Hogsmeade privileges have been revoked, that he’s been barred from participation in extracurricular activities. 

But what he will remember, later, is this—after Snape has been led out of Dumbledore’s office, after James has been excused, Sirius sits across from Dumbledore in a hard wooden chair, and Dumbledore asks him the question he’s been dreading even without knowing it.

“Why did you do this, Mr. Black?” Dumbledore’s eyes are sad and probing, and Sirius clenches his fists again. He opens his mouth, trying to scrounge up an answer, any answer, but nothing comes out. 

The way Dumbledore looks at him, though, with a combination of pity and anger, Sirius thinks he knows. Knows about Rosier, knows about Evans, knows about Snape’s taunts and the sheer loathing Sirius had felt in that moment. 

At some point, he must leave the office, because he wakes up the next morning in his own bed. It’s a Saturday, thank Merlin, so he stays in bed for as long as he can, listening to the hushed movements of his friends behind the safety of his canopy. He can’t face Remus. He can’t even imagine how Remus will react, because Remus _must_ know. Dumbledore would have told him in the early hours of the morning, when Remus was dazed and pained from the transformation. Yet another wound to add to the litany of scars.

He scrounges up the courage to apologize in the late afternoon, when it’s just Remus and him left in the room—James off to Quidditch, Peter off to another Charms study session with Mary Macdonald. Remus is flipping through what looks to be a Muggle novel, though Sirius can’t quite read the title of it from across the room. He hasn’t looked at Sirius for hours. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I—I didn’t think he would do it. I was—I was angry, and he was talking about my family, and about Reg, and about you, and I just—I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t think he would find you. I thought he would maybe get hit by the Willow, and that would be it. I didn’t want to actually hurt him. I didn’t want to hurt _you._ ” And he can feel salt dripping down his cheeks now, and his eyes are burning, but he keeps going. “Please, Moony. I know—I know we all promised to never tell anyone your secret, and I’m so sorry. I should never have even hinted at it. I—I don’t even know how I can say how sorry I am.”

“Okay,” Remus says, so quietly that Sirius thinks for a second that he’s imagining things. 

“Okay?” It seems unreal, Remus letting it all go this easily. He thinks his heart might burst from the relief.

“You’re not forgiven, of course,” Remus continues. “But I’ve heard your apology. And okay. You’ve apologized.”

“I’m so sorry.” And the tears are coming back now, trails of water down his face.

“Sorry doesn’t _do_ anything, don’t you understand?” Remus says, snapping his book shut and sitting up. “Sirius, do you know what would have happened if James hadn’t stopped Snape? If Snape had gotten his way into the Shack completely, if the wolf had managed to corner him? He would have _died._ He would have been torn to shreds. And do you know what they do to werewolves that kill people, Sirius? They execute them with an axe. Like animals. Not like people, no, not even with the Dementor’s Kiss. An axe through the head. It’s a spectator sport, you know, for some people. They go to the Ministry and watch as Dark Creatures are executed. Some people enjoy the blood.”

“You’re not a Dark Creature.”

“Aren’t I?” Remus cocks his head. “The wolf is dangerous, Sirius. It can and it _will_ kill humans. But you didn’t think about that, did you, because the only thing you’ve _ever_ stopped to think about is yourself.”

“That’s not true,” Sirius snaps. “I just—”

“Wasn’t thinking?”

“He was talking about my family.”

“Sirius, Snape is always talking about your family,” Remus says, his voice artificially calm. “What changed?”

“I—” He can’t tell Remus, especially not now. It would just give him another reason to hate Sirius, to never look him in the eye again. He can imagine it too vividly—Remus stalking out of the room, his head held high, a look of disgust in his brown eyes. 

It’s not his imagination. Remus is standing in the doorway now, his book under his arm. “All I ask for, Sirius, is that you realize that other people exist besides you—that other people have problems, have lives, have things that _matter_ to them just as much as your problems do to you.”

“I do,” Sirius whispers, but Remus is gone now, and he’s alone again. 

Outside, it’s a beautiful October day. The wind is warm, and the sky is clear. Sirius wants to rip his own throat out.

**Aberdeen, Hong Kong, March 1985**

He translates the tale into what he hopes is a believable Muggle version—a fight with a school enemy, the unintentional revelation of a family secret, an argument over trust and compassion. Jinjing nods along as he does so, even as he stumbles over the details.

“She finally forgave me in December,” Sirius says, smiling at the memory. “She told me I’d been moping around for long enough and it was clear that I actually felt guilty.” It had been the week before Christmas, actually, and Remus, sighing, had sat down next to Sirius on his bed, enveloping him in a hug. It was one of the best things he had ever felt. “Eventually, I told her why I did it. She told me she’d been in love with me for more than a year and that I was an idiot for not telling her earlier.”

“You must have loved her very much,” Jinjing says.

“I did,” Sirius says softly. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on the note of Strange Research that comes with fic writing: i now know an approximate timeline of lego releases across the world. 
> 
> as usual, kudos + comments fuel me!


	6. Ten Letters Sirius Black Didn’t Send to Remus Lupin, 1981-1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys enjoy this chapter! and i promise, remus Will show up soon!
> 
> also, happy birthday to harry james potter! my birthday present to him is writing him a better childhood.

**November 1981**

Dear Remus,

I’m so, so sorry. I don’t even know how to write out how sorry I am.

I should have trusted you. I was an idiot. Of course, you know that. 

~~Peter told me you were the spy. And you were disappearing, and you wouldn’t tell me where you were going, and it felt like I didn’t matter to you anymore, and you always bottled everything up, and I just wish you _told_ me everything. ~~

We made Peter the Secret Keeper because we—James and I—thought that it would be too obvious if it were me. Everyone knew that James and I were best friends, brothers in everything but blood. The Death Eaters would have found me too easily, even if I went into hiding or moved to fucking Antarctica. They would have chased me to the ends of the Earth. And at first, I thought it wouldn’t be a problem. I would have died for James. I still wish I did. Let them torture me, let them kill me—they wouldn’t get anything out of me, no matter how many Crucios they cast. But James wouldn’t have any of that. He said Harry needed a godfather, and he needed his brother.

~~_I_ need James. Merlin, Moony, I miss him so much. Sometimes it feels like he’s still here—every time I see someone ruffle their hair, every time I see a boy flirting badly with a girl, every time I see a flash of light on wide-rimmed glasses. ~~

So we chose Peter. After all, who would think that Peter could be the bearer of a weight like that? And Peter had less to lose—he didn’t have any mad family members trying to murder him, no Cousin Bella whose dream was to see him dead at her feet. So we thought it would be safe, and we didn’t tell anyone about the switch that didn’t need to know. We didn’t even tell Dumbledore. 

And you know the rest. We underestimated Peter, just like we thought the Death Eaters would. I still don’t understand why he did it. What did the Death Eaters give him that we couldn’t? Not friendship, certainly. Not money—you know James and I would have given him as much as he needed if he just asked for it. And I can’t imagine him being one of those true believers, not like Bella or Malfoy—after all, Mary was a Muggleborn, wasn’t she, and they dated for more than two years! So I can’t understand it at all. 

And I still think I should have gone after him. He’s out there, Moony, and I don’t think he’s dead. I’m terrified that he’ll come after Harry. ~~I’m terrified he’ll come after you.~~

Harry and I are in Hong Kong now. I had to take him, Moony—Dumbledore was going to make him live with Lily’s horrible sister and her husband, and I just couldn’t do that to him. Anyway, I’m hoping that Hong Kong’s far enough away from everything that we’ll be safe—from the Death Eaters, from Peter, from any incredibly incompetent Ministry officials. I never thought I’d come here again. We’re living in Aberdeen, near the water. You would love it here—lots of things to write poetry about, I expect. 

~~Come find us. Please. I can’t do this alone. I love you, Remus.~~

~~Love Yours Always yours Sincerely~~ Love,

Sirius

**January 1982**

Dear Remus,

I got a job! Me! 

They hired me last month, actually. I’m translating articles for a local newspaper into English. Hopefully, it’ll help me improve my Cantonese, and the editor seems nice enough. I’m not sure if I should be worried about journalistic standards, given how quickly they took me on, but oh well. Maybe it’s the salary. I’m fairly sure that most reputable journalists earn more than 10,000 pounds a year, but I have enough money in my Gringotts vault still (thank Merlin that the goblins don’t seem to care that I’m technically a murder suspect), and regardless—I have a job! 

I am now a veritable adult. I have responsibilities! And you said I’d never grow up. 

Moony, I miss you terribly. I’ve been telling Harry bedtime stories about us—pranks, classes, and the like. Remember when we decided to turn the entirety of Slytherin House’s hair green and silver, even Slughorn’s, and when they tried to wash it out, it just got even greener, and it stayed like that for weeks? ~~I can still remember the look on Reg’s face.~~ Those weeks of detentions were definitely worth it. 

And I’ve been wondering where it all went wrong. Looking back, it was all so _good,_ and I just keep asking myself—what happened to that? 

Do you think ~~if there hadn’t been a war if we trusted each other more if we knew the spy was Peter~~ if there hadn’t been a war, things could have gone differently? I’ve been wondering about that a lot too. James could have played Quidditch, just like he always wanted to, and Lily could have been a journalist, not for _The Prophet_ but one of those long-form mags that she loved so much, or maybe a potioneer. It’s so strange to think that they’ll never grow any older, that every photograph Harry sees of his parents will have them that young. James will never even get to grow that horrifically long beard like he wanted to. 

And, of course, if things had gone differently, Harry would still have his parents. 

I’m not good enough with him, Moony. It was different when he wasn’t my kid, you know? I didn’t worry as much about him getting sick. I didn’t worry as much when I heard him cry, because I knew everything would be all right in the end. ~~But when he cries now, all I can think of is when I found him in their house, the way he was crying, and how everything felt wrong and terrible and terrifying.~~

How did James and Lily do it? I’m terrified all the time that something will happen to him. Do you think all parents just live with that constant, quiet fear, and nobody talks about it because they think they’re the only ones who are worrying? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just going mad. 

I’ve been thinking about that too, you know. Sometimes, at night, I think I see James, just puttering around the kitchen, stealing food from the refrigerator like he used to do every time he came over to our flat. Or I’ll see Lily curled up on the couch, doing the crossword, and I’ll walk over to help her but no one will be there. 

And I’ve been wondering about ghosts. I know, realistically, that they won’t be ghosts—Lily always hated that idea, you know, being tethered to the Earth after your death, unable to leave until you tackle some unknowable, mysterious task. I remember how she tried to convince Nearly Headless Nick that death wouldn’t be so bad in our first year, that he could see everyone he loved again. Naturally, it horrified him. I think Lily is the only person I’ve ever met who was never afraid to die. She told me that once, that there are far worse things to be afraid of than death. 

But I wonder, still. Because why wouldn’t they be ghosts? ~~Why would they leave me alone?~~ They’ve got unfinished business, haven’t they? They’ve got to. 

Anyway, I hope you’re doing all right. I hope you’re actually using the dittany and medicine I’ve been sending you. There’s no reason to suffer silently, Moony. And please stop being an idiot and take the money too. Spoil yourself a little. 

Love,

Sirius

**March 1982**

Dear Remus,

Happy birthday! Good health, cheer, and all that. I’d make you some cake to commemorate it, except you’re thousands of miles away and I don’t know how to bake cake. 

I really do hope you’re doing all right, Moony. I know the full was yesterday—I hope it wasn’t too bad. Right unfair of the moon to come around in that way so close to your birthday. I hope you aren’t spending all of the fulls at the Ministry, by the way. You’ve told me yourself how horrible those holding cells are, and I can’t bear to think of you all chained up like an animal. You’re not an animal, Moony. You’re not. It doesn’t matter what the wolf is—you’re human for more than 95% of every month. At your essence, Moony, you’re just Remus John Lupin: swot, secret political aficionado, and old-man-in-training. 

Are you with your dad today? I hope he still knows when your birthday is, at least. If you are, I hope dinner with him isn’t too terrible. If you aren’t with him, I hope you’re at a nice club, making friends and dancing and smoking the best weed of your life. You deserve that. You deserve everything. 

Do you remember your sixteenth birthday? You probably do; your memory has always been good. That was a good day, wasn’t it? Remember how James enchanted the candles on your cake so that they sang Happy Birthday to you? I still remember the look on your face at that. Merlin, you were horrified. Remember how we strew up those huge banners across your bedposts, all shining red and gold, and the Sticking Charm we used was just a bit too powerful so they stayed like that for months, and then you bit your nails ragged with worry the day later because you were terrified that Dumbledore would fine you for ruining the furniture? 

Do you still have the jumper I made you? The green one, with the little dogs running across the collar? It took so long for me to learn how to knit. I can’t imagine how all those mums and dads across the nation do it. And Mary wasn’t exactly the best teacher. She kept getting frustrated every time I dropped a stitch, like I should have known how to knit already despite her knowing perfectly well what my mother was like. The only person I can ever remember knitting at 12 Grimmauld Place was an old woman in a portrait. 

Anyway, I’m making this all about me now, which is a sign I should start wrapping this up. Sorry for that. Remember, Moony, I love you beyond words. You are the smartest, kindest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Merlin, I miss you. Happy birthday again, and I love you. Please remember that. 

Love,

Sirius

**May 1982**

Dear Remus,

I bought Harry a broom today! Oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s just another toy one, since I expect the one left in Godric’s Hollow to be beyond repair, and even if it isn’t, I can’t exactly just fly over and retrieve it, can I. I had to take a trip to the Wizarding Quarter to buy it. Yes, I know, I should be more careful, but really, how are any Aurors milling about going to tell me apart from all the other wizards here? I don’t even think there _are_ any Aurors here. You know half of them can barely tell a Grindylow from a Kneazle; you can’t seriously expect them to know I’m Chinese and not Japanese. You’ve got to remember how Dawlish introduced himself to me with fucking _konichiwa_ on the train our second year. Fucking idiot. 

Besides, it’s not like I go into the Wizarding Quarter regularly. Anyway, I hope Harry loves the broom. He’s got strange taste in toys, though. I bought him a new toy truck the other day (in Gryffindor colors too!) and he ignored it to play with an old toilet paper tube he found on the sidewalk. 

Speaking of Aurors and Wizarding Quarter nonsense—I should tell you what I’ve learned about the government here, since I expect that’s the kind of thing you’d find absolutely fascinating, you little Machiavelli. 

From what I can gather, the Muggles are working under the Westminster system, just modified a bit, so they’ve got an Executive Council, a Legislative Council, a Supreme Court, and a Governor that basically presides over everything and has a frankly ridiculous amount of say over who gets to be in the Legislative and Executive Councils. The Governor is a Brit, of course—fucking imperialism—and right now the Muggle one is some bloke named Youde. He’s Welsh, actually! From Penarth, apparently, right on the opposite side from St. Asaph. 

Anyway—for the wizards, they set it up fairly similarly, probably because they couldn’t be arsed to figure anything else out. Get this—Gerald Macmillan is the current Wizarding Governor, and most of the Legislative Council, bar the unofficial representatives, who are mostly native Hong Kongers, are pureblood gits. Fucking Lucius Malfoy is one of them, which I can’t even begin to wrap my head around. 

Now, I can hear you saying already, _Padfoot, if Macmillan is the Wizarding Governor, how on Earth can you feel safe in Hong Kong? How on Earth can you feel safe with Malfoy’s ugly mug skulking around?_ Now, that’s the funny part. The Muggle Governor lives in Hong Kong, of course, along with the members of their Legislative Council. But the wizards? Nearly none of them live down here. No, they Floo in for meetings, spend a few hours sitting at uncomfortable tables and debating legislation, and then they Floo right back to their mansions in Britain. 

I think I used to be more worried about them finding me, but again—firstly, none of the wizards sitting on that Council have enough brain cells to rub together to recognize me, and secondly, I think they have bigger problems on their mind. They’ve got dark wizards here too, though I think they’re more group-based and regional, in a sense—if you know about the triads, they function a bit like those, except with magic, of course—and I think the government is far more concerned with catching those wizards than searching for me. 

I do try to be careful, though. Like I said before, I don’t go into the Wizarding Quarter if I don’t have to, and when I do, I always cast a Glamour first. I don’t take Harry with me either, since I’m fairly certain he’d be more recognizable than I am.

Anyway, I’ve got to start cooking up dinner, so I’ll end this letter here. Maybe this will be the first letter I actually send. I love you, Remus. I swear by all flowers, remember?

Love,

Sirius

**August 1982**

Dear Remus,

Yesterday, Harry turned two, though you know that.

You probably also know that I got pissed out of my mind the moment Harry fell asleep, and that when Harry woke me up in the middle of the night, I almost tripped and fell head-first into the toilet bowl, and that I feel like absolute shit this morning and I know I deserve it.

I’m definitely not sending this letter.

I hate that they’re not there for this, you know? James started planning out presents for Harry’s second birthday the day after he turned one. Harry would have gotten a toy snitch, one of those huge ones that actually look nothing like a snitch because they need to be big enough that toddlers won’t try to eat them, and a working toy train set, and a Puffskein (though I suspect that would have been more for James himself than Harry), and a big book of fairy tales, and an enormous teddy bear. 

I bought him the train set, fairy tales, and teddy bear. Not many Puffskeins to be found in Hong Kong, and I don’t think our flat’s got enough room for him to properly play with a snitch. 

And I know the gifts aren’t enough. Even if I bought out the whole of Harrods and Diagon Alley for Harry, it wouldn’t be enough. The only gift I really wish I could get him is Lily and James, and that’s clearly not possible. 

I can’t even throw him a party. Even if I could, who the fuck would I invite? Hello, the ghosts of James and Lily, welcome to your son’s second birthday party! Hello, Remus who probably hates me, isn’t the weather pleasant? Hello, the ghosts of Marlene, Dorcas, Benjy, Caradoc, Fabian, and Gideon, welcome to Hong Kong! I hope you’ve all been having a wonderful day. 

Sounds like a swell time, doesn’t it? 

On the bright side—we had cake. I went to this small bakery down the street and bought one with loads of whipped frosting and all kinds of fruit piled on top, kiwis and strawberries and blueberries glazed with sugar. Harry liked it—or at least I think he did, since he kept smashing bits of it in his face and laughing. 

My head hurts like hell, so I’m going to stop writing now. Sending all my love.

Love,

Sirius

**February 1983**

Dear Remus,

Whoever invented the concept of the “terrible twos” clearly wasn’t fucking around. One minute, Harry’s playing with his train set, perfectly happy, and the next, he’s knocked the whole thing over and is screaming bloody murder. I really hope this actually _is_ normal and can’t just be chalked up to me being a failure of a parent yet again.

On the bright side, my cooking skills have significantly improved, if I do say so myself. I made wontons yesterday—rolled out my own wrappers and everything, which was bloody impossible. It tasted great in the end, though. It reminded me a bit of the matzah balls your mum made that time we went to your house for Passover. 

Also, Harry’s talking! Well, he was talking before, granted, but he’s talking properly now, little sentences and everything. “Go fly,” he said yesterday, pointing at his toy broom—I’m telling you, he’s going to be a fantastic Quidditch player. On the unfortunate side of things, he says “bloody” a lot, so I guess I’ve got to start watching my mouth around him more. 

I also managed to get promoted at work—a right shock, since I don’t think I actually do very much, but I guess the higher-ups were impressed with my translation skills. I’m translating world news along with local news now, which means I can now tell you loads of statistics about unemployment in the UK and nuclear build-up in the United States. Fun times.

Well, Harry’s overturned his train set again, so I’m going to go comfort him and give him some grapes. Those usually calm him down pretty quickly. I love you to the ends of the galaxy and back.

Love, 

Sirius

**December 1983**

Dear Remus,

Merlin, I love Christmastime. I can’t believe I haven’t gushed to you about this yet, honestly. Let me tell you how everything looks, this time of year.

There’s lights everywhere. They line the streets, hanging down from the edges of windows and balconies. You can find the most lights in Central, where there’s a light show nearly every half-hour. Near HSBC, there are enormous Christmas trees, with huge red and green ornaments hanging from their branches. All we need is snow, and it’d be just like London. 

I bought Harry loads of presents this year. I got him three different picture books about trains, because he’s become obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine. On that note, I also bought him another train set, one that winds through snowy mountains and a little village. Our whole apartment will just be toy railroad tracks soon, though I can’t really complain, since Harry loves them so much. There’s also this tiny little toy stove-and-kitchen set since Harry enjoys watching me cook, for some reason, and a huge plush dog. I hope he likes them.

Now, on a completely different note—Harry and I managed to run across a horrible bunch of American tourists the other day. Well, more like I saw a bunch of ridiculously drunk American tourists harassing some teenagers and I stepped in before things could get ugly. For some reason, one of them thought it would be the worst thing in the world to call me a Chinese bastard, to which I told him that he really needed to get better insults than just descriptors, which left him gaping for a while. 

But this reminded me of that summer when I was fourteen, the one and only time I came to Hong Kong with my family. Now, my predominating memory of that trip is me telling my wonderful mother that I was friends with a Muggleborn, after which she slapped me and I promptly returned to Grimmauld Place. So, fun times.

But another memory came to me after we ran into those tourists. A few days before I went back to London, we—me, Reg, and my wonderful birth-givers—were walking through The Peak. My father was scoping out properties in the area, and it was deadly hot that day. I remember my mother forcing us to wear robes even though she knew that we would just sweat through them, and Reg and I looked like right tossers, the only two idiots not wearing t-shirts and shorts in the entire city. 

We were going to an open house, and what I most remember is this: we were walking up to the door, and the Muggle manning the place, who had pale blond hair and the most ridiculous eyebrows I’ve ever seen in my life, took one look at me and Reg, sweat dripping down our foreheads, and then another look at my parents, who were muttering to each other in Mandarin, and told us we weren’t welcome inside. And he didn’t need to say anything else, because the way he looked at us—like we were lesser, like we were disgusting, like we weren’t fit to breathe in the same air as him—said it all.

I can still remember the way my mother moved to pull out her wand, her hands shaking with anger, and the way my father held her back, almost reluctantly, because we were still in public and that was no way for the matriarch of a pureblood family to act but it was clear he wanted to curse the man himself. 

And I remember how that night, in my bed, I thought about how I’d rarely thought about being Chinese before, because even though we spoke Mandarin at home and Kreacher knew how to make the best pineapple buns, what mattered most to my parents was being purebloods. And I remember how I wasn’t sure if my parents were so angry at that Muggle man because he was a Muggle who had deemed himself worthy enough to speak in such a way to a pureblood family or because he was a racist. And I remember thinking that it was horrible that no part of the world was free from hate, that Muggles hated other Muggles just as much for things they couldn’t control, like the colour of their skin or the places their ancestors came from or the languages they spoke, as wizards hated other wizards for their blood. 

I’m sorry for just throwing all of that at you. I’m also sorry for not writing more letters; I keep writing down things I wish I could say to you on sticky notes, and I wish I was at least brave enough to send those to you. Again, I love you, and I miss you.

Love,

Sirius

**August 1984**

Dear Remus,

Today, I finally had _the_ talk with Harry about James and Lily. I’ve had talks with him before about his parents, of course, told him all about how brave and smart and wonderful they were, and how even though they were gone they would always be with him, but I finally had to tell him about what happened to them today.

It was after I decided to read _James and the Giant Peach_ to him, because I went down to the bookstore and asked the woman who worked there for a recommendation, and Harry got it into his head that his parents had _also_ been trampled to death by an escaped rhinoceros. After that, I realized that it was probably time to actually tell Harry some semblance of the truth.

I left out all the worst parts, at least, and it helped that I’ve never tried to hide magic from Harry. But I had to tell him that an evil wizard named Voldemort was after his parents, and that someone we thought was a friend had betrayed them, and that even though Voldemort managed to kill both James and Lily, he wasn’t able to touch Harry. I don’t think Harry was too horrified by it, but that might have just been because he didn’t really understand it. 

Thinking about it still hurts. It hurts so, so fucking much, and I keep wondering—will it ever stop hurting? Will there be a day when I wake up and don’t ache for James and Lily to be alive? And do I even want that day to come?

I wish I knew how to answer these questions. What about you, Moony? Has it stopped hurting for you yet? Will it ever stop hurting for you?

Anyway, I love you. Wherever you are, I hope you’re doing all right.

Love,

Sirius

**April 1985**

Dear Remus,

Was making friends with us easy? From what I can remember, James and I basically just tugged you into our lives, and eventually, you stopped sighing and rolling your eyes every time we wanted to pull a prank. I do know that it wasn’t hard to become friends with James—Merlin, it was never hard to be friends with James. 

Making friends now, though, is difficult. Maybe because I haven’t really taken the time to—after all, I need to take care of Harry. But I think I might have finally made a friend, or rather, she made me her friend.

Her name is Jinjing. She lives in the building next door, which is very convenient, given that her grandson, Lucas, and Harry are now the best of friends. Both of them are very into Legos and Thomas the Tank Engine. I’m not sure if Harry’s train phase is just a phase anymore, since the other day he told me that his life’s aspiration is to become a train conductor, but never mind. 

Anyway, it’s nice to have a friend again. She’s a bit like Minnie, in that she’s always got tea and biscuits ready for you and always seems to know more than she’s letting on. She’s even offered to take care of Harry on days when I’m unwell, which has been a huge relief, especially after I got the chance to cast some protective wards around her apartment. On that note, thank Merlin for magic being so concentrated in Hong Kong that hardly anyone would notice a difference—one of the few perks of ridiculously high population density, I suppose. 

I’ve been talking to her a bit about you, actually, under the guise of telling her stories about my late wife. It's a little strange—can you imagine _me_ with a wife?—but honestly, I’ll take any chance to gush about you that I get. 

Fuck, Moony, I miss you so much. I hate that I still haven’t sent any of these letters to you. It gets harder the longer I wait, the more I keep putting it off. I should have just sent the first one and called it a day. I have so many things I want to tell you that I can’t write out, and so many things that I’ve already forgotten that I wanted to tell you about, and I just wish you were here. 

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Love,

Sirius

**June 1985**

Dear Remus,

Can you believe that Harry’s almost five? Where did the time go? Soon he’ll be off to school, and I’ll be waving goodbye through tears on Platform 9 and ¾.

Which reminds me—how the fuck am I going to get Harry to Hogwarts? If you happen to know, please tell me. I was under the impression that children who grow up in Hong Kong could go to Hogwarts if they want to, but apparently that changed a few years ago due to some ridiculous nationality law? I suppose I could always send him to Beauxbatons, but it just wouldn’t be the same, especially since I haven’t bothered to teach him any French. I figured that juggling English, Cantonese, Mandarin, and Hindi would be enough for him. 

Also, something—interesting, for lack of a better word, happened the other day. Jinjing and I decided to take Harry and Lucas to the zoo, since they’ve been going on for ages about seeing the giraffes. At one point, we went to visit the reptiles, and Harry managed to talk to one of the snakes. He told me that the snake’s name was Antonia and she didn’t like being kept captive in such a small space, and then he asked me if we could petition for the zoo to improve conditions for the animals, and how could I say no to that?

I feel like I should have known he was a Parselmouth before this, honestly, but it’s not like there are a lot of snakes just swanning around Aberdeen. Anyway, I don’t think there were any Parselmouths in James’s family, but I also didn’t pore over wizarding genealogy like Reg did, so maybe there were. I’m not going to worry about it too much, at least not for now, just because there are other things I’m far more worried about, and it doesn’t seem like Harry’s going to use this ability for anything more than campaigning for animal rights. 

Anyway, I think I might actually send this letter. I know, I say that almost every time, but I miss you so fucking much, Remus. I think I owe you the decency to let you know that I’m getting all your letters, at least, even if all of them say the same thing. And I want you to know that Harry and I, we’re doing okay. And I still love you. I always will.

Love,

Sirius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “i swear by all flowers” is a quote from “since feeling is first” by e. e. cummings—every remus i write is a huge poetry nerd, and i think sirius and him would have little poetry in-jokes, lines they quote at each other. 
> 
> also, it's Super Wack to discover that thomas the tank engine was invented in 1945. i always thought it was a 2000s thing whoops.
> 
> as usual, kudos and comments fuel me!


	7. Hong Kong, 1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm trying out something new this time with povs! let me know if you enjoy it!

**Aberdeen, Hong Kong, August 1985**

Being five, in Harry’s opinion, is much better than being four. Granted, he’s only been five for three days, but he already likes this more.

When you’re five, you can finally drink juice, since before your dad would always say that it would rot your teeth, but now that you’re five, he just sighs and says, “Well, Harry, you can if you really want to.” When you’re five, your dad will read _The BFG_ to you without skipping over the part where the giants eat people, even though you aren’t even scared of the giants because you could definitely fight one off if you tried hard enough. When you’re five, shopkeepers will stop cooing at you and start calling you kiddo instead, which is much better.

To be honest, Harry doesn’t feel very different, but everyone around him acts like he is, so he just goes along with it. Also, Lucas has been five for _two whole months_ while Harry had to keep being four, which is completely unfair.

And he even got to have a real birthday party this year! When he turned four, he did have a small party, just with his dad, but that wasn’t the same, because in storybooks birthday parties are always loud and crowded and his fourth birthday was just him and his dad in their flat, eating cake and opening presents, which really wasn’t very different from any of the times his dad decided to bring home cake for dinner. 

But this year, they invited Lucas and his grandma over, and Lucas brought his mum too, and his cousin Mandy, and there were balloons and streamers all over the flat! And they ate ice cream cake with sprinkles and little bits of chocolate cookies, and his dad gave him another train set, one that chugged through a little town by the seaside, and everyone played with it for hours. And later, when Lucas and his family left, his dad told him about his other dad and mum and how his other dad had always loved ice cream cake too.

Harry’s the only person he knows with two dads and a mum. His other dad and mum are gone, but his dad says that they’re always with him as long as Harry remembers them. His dad says that when Harry was young and they still lived in England, which is very, very far away from Hong Kong, there was an evil wizard who killed his mum and other dad, because they were good and thought that everyone was equal and anyone who had magic should be able to use it, and the bad wizard didn’t like that because he thought only some types of people should have magic. His dad says that his other dad and mum were very, very brave.

Harry’s dad tells him about his other dad and mum a lot. They had magic too, and his dad says that they were brilliant, that his mum was the smartest witch in their whole year and his other dad was amazing at Transfiguration. They were in Gryffindor, and so was Harry’s dad, so Harry’s going to be in it too when he goes to Hogwarts, which was where his dad and other dad and their friend Remus and his mum all met. Harry’s other dad was a chaser on the Hogwarts Quidditch team, and his dad says that Harry’s already as good at flying as he was. His dad says that Harry looks just like his other dad did, but he has his mum’s eyes. 

Harry wishes that he still remembers his other dad and mum, but at least he has his dad to tell him stories about them. And anyway, Lucas doesn’t have a dad, only a mum and a grandma, so maybe this is just how life is. Maybe you only get one parent, and they love you enough for two. 

Sometimes, Harry’s dad gets really sad when he talks about Harry’s other dad and mum. It’s usually around Halloween, which is when the evil wizard killed his other dad and mum, or on the days after Harry’s birthday. Secretly, Harry thinks that his dad gets sad on Harry’s birthday too, because he can see him smile too wide in the way he always does when he’s about to cry. But his dad never does cry, only asks Harry what color of candles he wants on his cake, and Harry thinks that’s a bit what being an adult is like—not crying until no one can see you do it. 

His dad isn’t crying now, though. Right now, his dad is still half-asleep as Harry pokes at his stubbly cheek. On that note, his dad _really_ needs to shave. Harry bounces up and down impatiently on his dad’s bed. Honestly, it’s already ten in the morning. His dad should definitely be awake by now.

“Harry?” his dad blinks open his eyes blearily, sitting up and stretching. “How long have you been up for?”

“Ages,” Harry whines. It’s been more than twenty minutes since he woke up, and he’s _bored._ He tells this to his dad, who smiles.

“Why don’t you go play with your new train, Harry?” his dad asks. 

“I can’t, because Percy’s mad at the new train,” Harry explains patiently, and his dad blinks, looking confused.

“Percy?”

“Percy the train,” Harry says. Percy’s always been Harry’s favorite train because he’s green and red, which are objectively the best colors. 

“Right,” his dad says. “Why is Percy mad at the new train?”

“He’s scared I’m going to replace him, but that’s not even true,” Harry says. “I like Percy the best out of all my trains, and he knows that, but he’s—” Harry searches for the right words, but his dad seems to understand.

“Feeling insecure,” his dad says, filling in the blanks, and Harry nods. “Well, I think you should tell Percy he’s your favorite train again, and that you won’t replace him no matter what, and maybe he’ll feel better. Tell you what—you go do that, and I’ll go make breakfast, okay?”

“Eggs?” Harry asks, frowning.

“Eggs are good for you, Harry,” his dad says, like he always does, and Harry rolls his eyes, because even if they are, eggs are super gross. They somehow manage to taste like dirt and absolutely nothing at the same time, and they’re super mushy too. 

“Can we have youtiao instead?” Harry loves youtiao, because it’s crunchy and soft and salty and sweet all at the same time. 

“How about this,” his dad says. “We’ll go buy youtiao, but I’m also going to make scrambled eggs, and you have to eat them. Eggs will help you grow up tall and strong, Harry.”

“I don’t want to be tall and strong,” Harry says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not if I have to eat eggs.” 

“I can’t believe any descendant of James Fleamont Potter, who continuously claimed he was two inches taller than he actually was, would ever say those words,” his dad says, shaking his head. “Anyway, Harry, it’s eggs and youtiao or just eggs.”

“Fine,” Harry says, sticking out his tongue defiantly. If he’s lucky, he can slip his eggs into the trash can when his dad’s not looking. Again. It’s really easy to fool his dad. “It’s a deal.”

“It’s a deal, the emperor says,” his dad says, sighing. “All right, then, Harry—can you go wash up, and I’ll get dressed and we’ll go out to the canteen for youtiao?”

“Shave too,” Harry adds, because his dad _cannot_ pull off a mustache. He ignores the look of mock offense his dad pulls, because Harry knows he’s right.

Harry loves going to the canteen. Every time he walks in, he can smell all the different foods cooking, spices and warmth filling the air. His dad grumbles a bit at the growing crowd waiting in line, but Harry doesn’t mind—it’s nice meeting new people, especially when they’re all so interesting. The last he came to the canteen with his dad, he talked to an old man who lived on a boat and ran his own restaurant, and the old man even told Harry about the best way to catch salt fish! 

“Two youtiao, please,” his dad says once they reach the front of the line. “And some soy milk.”

Harry takes the plastic bag full of food that the woman at the counter hands him eagerly, scrabbling for the youtiao, before his dad quickly takes the bag away from him.

“You’ve got to wash your hands first, Harry,” his dad says as Harry pouts, because _honestly,_ his hands are super clean, and he’s _hungry._

He skips the entire way back to the flat, tugging his dad along. Finally, after walking _forever,_ they’re back in their home, and Harry hoists himself onto a stool, kicking his legs impatiently as he watches his dad put away the keys and pull off his shoes. 

“Can we eat now?” 

“Go wash your hands and you can eat, yes,” Harry’s dad says, opening the refrigerator and rummaging around for a minute before looking at Harry suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. “Harry? Why aren’t there any eggs left?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry says innocently. He didn’t. He just—wanted them to disappear really, really badly. 

“The carton is still there, but there’s no eggs,” his dad says slowly. “And I know there were at least a half-dozen left yesterday.”

Harry shrugs. “Magic?”

“I wish my accidental magic had been that directed as a kid. Would have done me a world of good,” his dad grumbles, but he’s smiling. “Fine, just youtiao then, just like you wanted. Merlin, James would be proud of you.”

Harry beams. 

A few minutes later, when Harry’s finally—finally!—eating the youtiao, dunking alternate bites into the sweet soy milk, his dad clears his throat. “Any plans for today, Harry?”

“Can I go play with Lucas?” he asks, tearing off another piece of youtiao.

“As long as Jinjing’s fine with it, sure. We can pop over and check with her after breakfast,” his dad says. “Just remember the rules—”

Harry groans. His dad has the _weirdest_ rules. “If someone calls me ‘Harry Potter,’ I should run away from them. Then, I should hide in the closest alley and use the Portkey to get back home. When I get back, I need to tell you exactly what that person looked like. And I shouldn’t talk to strangers.” Once, Harry had asked his dad _why_ he needed to know these rules, but his dad had just mumbled something about death wizards that didn’t really make any sense. 

“Especially strangers with candy,” his dad says seriously before brightening up. “And right on, Harry.”

His dad takes forever to finish breakfast, reading the newspaper and filling out the crossword as he eats. Crosswords are boring, but for some reason, his dad loves them. Finally, his dad puts the dishes in the sink and brushes himself off. “Right. Let’s go see about Lucas and Jinjing.”

He loves going over to Lucas’s flat. It looks almost exactly like their own, but Lucas has a _cat,_ so their flat is ten times better. Cats are amazing. Dogs are too, but when your dad can actually turn into a dog, the novelty wears off a little. 

The cat is named Minnie, which his dad finds really funny for reasons he’s never explained to Harry. She’s grey and really, really fluffy, which makes her the best cat. 

When they get to the flat, Harry rings the doorbell three times in a row before his dad stops him. “I think they’ve probably heard you by now, kiddo,” his dad says. Harry presses his ear up to the door, listening for footsteps.

“Po Po!” Harry hears Lucas call. “Someone’s at the door!”

A few moments later, the door opens. Standing on the other side is Lucas’s grandma, who smiles at them. “Hello Harry, Stephen.”

“Hi again,” his dad says, smiling. “Harry here was wondering if Lucas is free to play with him today?”

“After he washes up, he will be,” Lucas’s grandma says. Then, as if realizing something, she adds, “I do have to run some errands today, so I was planning on leaving Lucas with Mandy. If you’re all right with her looking after Harry and Lucas, I don’t see why they can’t.”

His dad frowns. “Has she looked after him before?”

“All the time,” Lucas’s grandma says. “And you’ve met her before, haven’t you? She’s very responsible for a teenager. The only person I’d trust with Lucas more is myself. She can bring them to Aberdeen Promenade.”

“That sounds good,” his dad says slowly. “Is she here already?”

“She is. She’s just finishing up her breakfast, and then I’m sure she’d be happy to take them outside.”

“Can I go play with Lucas now?” Harry asks, tugging at his dad’s shirt. 

His dad laughs. “Yes, you can.”

He finds Lucas in his bedroom, building a tower of Legos.

“This is our building,” Lucas announces, plunking on another blue brick. 

Harry looks closely at the tower. If he tilts his head sideways and squints, it does look a _little_ bit like the apartment complex Lucas lives in. “It’s really nice,” he says instead.

Lucas puffs out his chest proudly. “Do you want to help?”

Harry nods, and he takes a pile of bricks from Lucas. They build happily for a few minutes until a shout comes from the hallway.

“Lucas, Po Po wants me to take you and your friend out. If you don’t come out here in the next ten seconds, I’m leaving without you! I’d love to go get lunch with my own friends, you know!” That must be Mandy. Harry doesn’t know anyone else with a voice _that_ loud.

“We’re coming!” Lucas calls back. He and Harry quickly scramble to their feet and run to the door, where Mandy is tapping her foot impatiently. 

Harry doesn’t go to the Promenade that often—his dad’s Fun Trip Ideas consist mostly of bringing him to Ocean Park, which _is_ fun, but after the tenth trip, it’s not as exciting—so it’s nice to go again, even if Mandy complains every few minutes about how slowly they’re walking. It isn’t Harry’s fault that everything is so pretty, especially today, when the sun is shining down on the water and turning it a clear blue. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a group of geese congregating near the water, and he tugs at Mandy’s sleeve. “Mandy, do you have any bread?”

“Do I look like I have bread?” Mandy says, rolling her eyes. Harry pouts, looking up at her with wide eyes, and a moment later, she sighs. “Fine, I have an old sandwich. I’m not going to eat it, so you and Lucas might as well have it.” She digs into her bag for a moment before pulling out a bagged sandwich that looks like it hasn’t seen the light of day for weeks. Harry wrinkles his nose, but he takes it anyway, giving one slice of bread to Lucas and keeping the other for himself.

He hums to himself as he guides the geese along with the bread, tearing off small pieces as he walks. Lucas is doing the same, a few meters down, and Mandy’s found her way to a bench, where she seems to be sitting and glaring daggers at the sun. Harry wonders if he’s going to be that weird when he’s her age. 

“Here, goosey-goose,” he calls softly to the closest bird. His dad doesn’t really like geese, which is another reason they never come down to the Promenade, but Harry thinks they’re pretty cool. He knows that his dad only says they’re evil because a really angry goose pooped on his shoe once, and besides, he’s seen his dad sneak bits of crust to hungry geese before anyway. “I’ve got food for you! And good food too, not eggs or tomatoes or anything like that, which suck. Bread is good, right? You guys like bread.”

He hears a chuckle come from above, and he looks up to find a man with light brown hair and a scar over the bridge of his nose, dressed in long, baggy shorts and a rumpled blue shirt, a smile spread across his tired face. Harry smiles back—smiling isn’t exactly _talking_ to strangers, after all—but the man looks shaken.

“Harry Potter?” the man says tentatively, stepping closer. He looks like he’s going to faint, judging by the way his face has turned deathly pale. 

Harry isn’t always the best at assessing the safety of certain situations. He’s jumped off the swings and landed wrong enough times to know that. But finally, his survival instinct seems to have kicked in, because his dad’s rules come flooding to the front of his mind. 

_If someone calls you Harry Potter, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. Find a safe, empty space, and then use the Portkey I’ve given you—it looks like a bottle cap, and it’ll be in the left pocket of your trousers. It’ll bring you back to the flat immediately, and then, you should tell me everything that happened._

Harry runs.

* * *

Sirius is aware that Harry doesn’t really understand why he has to keep a Portkey on him every time he leaves the safety of their flat. He’s also aware that Harry needs, more than anything, to keep that Portkey on him every time he leaves their flat.

But he doesn’t really expect Harry to ever _need_ to use it. It’s more of a safety mechanism than anything else; after all, for the past five years, he hasn’t caught hind or tail of another British wizard. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s fallen into complacency.

So when Harry materializes in their living room, panting, Sirius feels as though he’s going to fall over from shock. Instead, though, he runs over to Harry, enveloping him in a hug.

“Are you all right?” he asks, checking Harry for bumps and bruises. “Did you activate the Portkey accidentally?” He doesn’t want to consider the alternative—that Harry had a run-in with an overenthusiastic wizard, or, even worse, a Death Eater.

Mutely, Harry shakes his head, and Sirius’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest. 

“Someone called me Harry Potter,” Harry says, worrying his bottom lip. 

“Do you remember what they looked like?” Sirius asks, forcing himself to keep any trace of panic out of his voice. 

“He had—” Harry scrunches up his face, as if willing himself to remember. “Brown hair. He was tall. He didn’t _look_ like a wizard.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t wearing fancy robes or a silly hat like Professor Dumbledore in the pictures you showed me,” Harry says. “He looked normal.”

That doesn’t help much. The only person who dresses like Albus Dumbledore is Albus Dumbledore. 

“All right,” Sirius says, breathing out a sigh. “Are you hurt, Harry?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry frowns. “He didn’t try to hex me or anything. He just stood there.”

“Okay,” Sirius says, hugging Harry again. “That’s good. You’ve been very brave, Harry. I’m so, so sorry that this happened.”

He should have been there, should have been able to fight the man off, whoever he was. Mentally, he runs through the list of tall wizards with brown hair who could still be looking for Harry. Scrimgeour, maybe, although why would the Aurors finally be in Hong Kong now? Too many Death Eaters he can think of—Nott, Mulciber, Avery, Macnair. 

And Remus, maybe. But that’s probably too much to hope for—that Remus still thinks about, worries about, dreams about Sirius as much as Sirius does about him. 

Quickly, he releases Harry from the hug and tries to school his features into something that resembles calm. “Harry, we’re going to need to leave Hong Kong for a little bit, okay? Can you go pack up your things?”

“But why?” Harry says, looking less scared than confused. “Was that person a death wizard?”

“Death Eater,” Sirius corrects automatically, and then sighs. He’s never really explained any of this before to Harry—he’s told him about Voldemort, of course, and what happened to his parents—but he’s mostly glossed over the details of everything else, from the Death Eaters to, you know, the murderous xenophobia, figuring that he could fill in the gaps when Harry got older. It doesn’t look like he can do that anymore. “Harry, remember when I told you that the reason your mum and dad are gone is the evil wizard who attacked them?”

Harry nods, shifting from foot to foot. “But what does that have to do with today?

“The evil wizard—Voldemort—had followers who called themselves Death Eaters. Lots of followers, actually, far too many. And even after the evil wizard disappeared, a lot of his followers didn’t. Some of them could still be searching for you and me, and you might have run into one of them today. They would do anything they can to hurt us. It’s why I make you carry the Portkey, so you can get away from them quickly if you need to.” 

“But why do they even care about us?” 

And this is even harder to explain. “Remember when I told you that Voldemort wasn’t able to hurt you? You’re the only person who’s ever survived the curse he used to kill your parents, and because of that, some of his followers think you would know how to bring him back.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Harry says. Sirius doesn’t even bother to reprimand Harry for that, because honestly? It _is_ stupid. “Wasn’t I just a baby? I don’t even remember what the evil wizard looked like.”

“I know,” Sirius says, sighing. “I’m sorry about all of this, Harry. But we do have to leave Hong Kong, at least for a while, especially if the Death Eaters have found us. It’ll be safer.”

“Are we coming back?”

“I don’t know,” Sirius says simply, and Harry’s face falls.

“Can I say at least say goodbye to Lucas?” And oh, they should probably do something about that, especially if Harry just disappeared into thin air while in a city park. Jinjing’s probably out of her mind with worry. 

“I’ll phone Jinjing and let her know that we had a family emergency, which is why you had to come home,” Sirius decides. 

Even after five years living in the Muggle world, telephones are still more than a little confusing for Sirius, but he knows how to dial a number now and speak over the phone without shouting, at least. Jinjing picks up on the second ring, sounding panicked.

“Is Harry there with you?” she asks, in lieu of a greeting.

“He is,” Sirius confirms. “I’m so sorry about all this trouble. Harry had a bad gut feeling, so he ran home, and it turned out that he was right. My uncle is very ill, you see, so we have to return to England immediately. We’ll be leaving Hong Kong for a while, unfortunately. Harry’s very torn up about all of this.” He winces at the artificiality of his own lies, but Jinjing seems to buy them.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice crackling over the line. “I hope your uncle recovers soon. And it’ll be a relief to Mandy when she finds out that Harry’s safe. She’s been so worried about him; we were just about to notify the police before you called.”

“I’m so sorry for the mix-up,” Sirius says, but Jinjing just laughs shakily.

“What matters is that everything’s fine in the end,” she says. “I hope you have a good time in England, and I’ll tell Lucas and Mandy what happened.”

“Thank you,” he says softly. He hopes desperately that this isn’t the last time he ever speaks to her. “I hope so too.”

When he hangs up, Harry’s staring at him with wide eyes. “Are we really going to England? Oh, are we going to see castles and knights and have tea with the queen?”

“Not this time, Harry,” Sirius says. “We just need everyone to think we are. We’ll be safer if no one knows where we’ve actually gone.” That way, if the Death Eaters decide to go knocking on doors, the only leads they find will be false ones. Maybe it would be safer to just Obliviate Jinjing and Lucas, but—he doesn’t know if he can bear to do that. 

“Even Lucas?”

“Even Lucas. I’m so sorry, Harry,” Sirius says. Harry’s eyes are welling up with tears, and Sirius wishes more than ever that he hadn’t let Harry out of his sight today. He grasps for something, anything, to make the situation better. In an instant, the answer comes to him, as clear as day. “We can take a train?”

Harry gasps. “A real train, with steam and a conductor and tea trolleys and everything?”

“A real train,” Sirius says. Granted, he’s fairly certain that most modern trains don’t run on steam, but it’s best not to tell Harry that, especially when he’s finally smiling again. “You’re going to love it. And it’s going to be okay, Harry. We’re going to be okay.”

If he says it with enough conviction, he can almost believe it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see, remus showed up! kind of,,
> 
> i promise they'll have a proper reunion soon, though! they deserve it, after everything they've been through.
> 
> also, to preemptively answer the question of why harry didn't recognize remus: the only photographs he's seen of remus are of his teenage years, and sirius doesn't even have many of those—he packed very hastily when he first left london with harry. dumbledore, by contrast, is very recognizable, what with the long white beard and purple robes. also, canonically, harry isn't very good at recognizing Relevant Details (for instance, snape's handwriting in the entirety of the half-blood prince), and besides, harry's five and has just escaped from a pretty stressful situation. to quote john mulaney, "i am very small and i have no money, so you can imagine the kind of stress that i am under."
> 
> as usual, kudos and comments fuel me!


	8. Hong Kong and Hogwarts, 1985

**Aberdeen, Hong Kong, August 1985**

Hong Kong is muggy and _hot_. No Welsh summer could have prepared him for this weather, Remus thinks, mopping sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. Even with a Cooling Charm, he can feel the heat radiating off of every surface. It’s almost as though he’s walking into a cloud, the city foggy and dense with smoke and people. Above him, fluorescent signs flash, advertising cheap eats and bars. 

It’s the kind of place Sirius would love, loud and flowing over with the essence of life. Maybe that’s why Remus is here, even though he genuinely doubts that Sirius has even set foot in the city in the past four years.

Because Sirius was never the kind of person to ever go anywhere his family had left its mark—and that mark didn’t even have to be tangible. That was the reason he stopped speaking Mandarin altogether the autumn after he left home, as if merely letting a phrase slip out in his family’s mother tongue would tie him inexorably to them, to everything they craved and hated and believed. 

It had been the opposite for James, who loved visiting New Delhi every summer with his parents, who proudly showed off photographs taken at Holi and Diwali. When Sirius moved in with the Potters, he’d set about learning Hindi immediately.

So he’s almost entirely certain that Sirius has never been here. But—where else could he be? Remus has been to every location on the face of the Earth that Sirius ever mentioned in a remotely positive manner, from Los Angeles to Accra, and he’s seen no trace of Sirius or Harry. 

But there’s always that bit of hope in his chest, that small spark of want, that betrays him and makes him think, _yes, this is the place, this is where I will find them,_ so he’ll spend weeks wandering this city visiting every park and cafe and grocery store, searching and wishing and wanting. 

And he’s put this off for long enough anyway. He’d planned to come to Hong Kong back in April, but then there had been the job interview with Dumbledore—which hadn’t been much of an interview at all, really, just Dumbledore and Professor Babbling explaining to him that he was the candidate they wanted most for the position.

“I’m sure you could find someone with more experience,” he had protested.

“You’ve had far more academic experience in this field than our other candidates,” Professor Babbling had said. “And I can vouch personally for your practical knowledge as well.”

“What about my condition?” he had asked, and Dumbledore had smiled kindly.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of Wolfsbane, Remus,” he had said, and Remus had nodded. “Our Potions professor would be happy to make it for you. Additionally, as Ancient Runes is an elective course, I’m certain our professors could work out a timetable that ensures none of your classes coincide with the day after a full moon.”

And that had been the clincher. He couldn’t afford any of the ingredients to even brew Wolfsbane on his own, and coupled with the promise of a steady income and his own rooms in the castle, he’d accepted the offer. He’d then spent the immediate months afterwards formulating lesson plans, visiting his father far more than usual to make up for the months he would be away, and making arrangements with UCL regarding his research. 

But he’s finally here. Hong Kong, the last place he’ll visit before he finally gives up, before he finally resigns himself to the conclusion that everyone else in the magical world came to four years ago. 

He spends the first day in Repulse Bay, which is the kind of neighborhood he can imagine the Black family approving of—obscenely wealthy and beautiful, looking out onto both the water and the verdant mountains. He’s not lucky enough to find any trace of Sirius or Harry, though. 

The same goes for Tai Tam, Sheung Wan, Wan Chai, and Central. Occasionally, he catches a glimpse of someone who walks like Sirius—straight-backed and proud, no matter how hard he tried to slouch—or he sees a man with too-long dark hair, and he’ll want to shout out, to scream, to finally get the answers he’s craved for so long, but then the moment passes, and Remus will realize that he never saw Sirius at all. 

He doesn’t go to Aberdeen for Sirius or Harry. Aberdeen is for himself, for the floating village he’s been fascinated by for years. Remus is and will always be a student, itching to learn, and the moment he discovered in his Sixth Year at Hogwarts that the wizarding residents of Aberdeen Harbour were one of the few remaining human communities that still fluently spoke and taught Mermish, he vowed to himself that he would pay a visit to it one day, come hell or high water. 

And Aberdeen is beautiful, of course. The whole of Hong Kong, in truth, is beautiful, but Remus has a fondness for the water. His mother would call it symbolic, the blessing of life. He thinks it’s more familiarity—after all, Hogwarts, surrounded by deep waters, was his second home. 

He manages to interview a few residents of the floating village, taking quick, half-legible notes that he hopes he can one day transform into actual, publishable research. Then, for lack of anything better to do, he finds himself wandering the Promenade, looking out onto the dazzling water. 

There’s the slightest edge of a cool breeze now, under the willow trees, and he ducks under the cover of their long, chain-like leaves. Distantly, he can hear laughter and chatter, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut before he thinks of sunny days at Hogwarts again, days when the name Voldemort was a mere rumor and it seemed like the worst thing that could happen was a shortage of bacon at breakfast. 

He watches as two boys peel off from a teenage girl with bobbed dark hair and pink-framed glasses—an older sister or babysitter, maybe—and head towards a flock of squawking geese. The corner of his mouth twitches up as he thinks of James, who always made it his mission to approach even the most unfriendly of magical creatures. Geese aren’t magical, of course, but they’re just as vicious as any grindylow he’s had the misfortune of meeting.

“Here, goosey-goose,” Remus hears one of the boys call, and that’s familiar too, but in a more painful way. It’s undeniably reminiscent of Sirius, who nicknamed every animal he ever met, from dogs to kappas. He can still remember the hippogriff Sirius decided to call Griffy-griff. Needless to say, it was a miracle that Sirius had gotten away from the creature without a scratch. 

“I’ve got food for you!” the boy continues. “And good food too, not eggs or tomatoes or anything like that, which suck. Bread is good, right? You guys like bread.”

Involuntarily, he laughs. The boy turns to him, a smile on his face, and suddenly, time stops.

Eleven, and a red-headed girl smiles at him after his sorting while Remus fidgets in his seat, wondering why the hat wouldn’t listen to his protests and just put him in Ravenclaw like he wanted. 

Twelve, and he’s partnered with Lily in Potions by Slughorn after he manages to blow up another cauldron, and she teaches him how to cut shrivelfigs into thin slices with her steady hands. 

Thirteen, and Lily tells him in the library that she knows his secret, but it doesn’t change how she sees him at all, really, because after all, it isn’t his fault that he’s a werewolf, is it.

Fourteen, and she’s the first person he comes out to, stuttering that he thinks he might like boys just as much as girls, and she envelopes him in a hug before pulling back and telling him, half-seriously, to promise that he’ll _never like Potter or Black in that way, Remus, please have more dignity than that._

Fifteen, and he sheepishly tells her that he’s broken his promise, and she sighs, rolling her eyes, and says that she’ll hex Sirius six ways to Sunday if he ever hurts him.

Sixteen, and he cries muffled tears onto her shoulder, barely managing to describe the enormity of what Sirius had done that October night.

Seventeen, and she winks at him when Sirius pulls him into a clumsy dance, their socked feet padding across the Gryffindor Common Room on New Year’s Eve. 

Eighteen, and they’re laughing together over a bottle of merlot while Lily bemoans their misfortune for falling in love with the two worst dark-haired boys in existence, _really, Remus, where did our taste go?_

Nineteen, and Lily is radiant at her wedding in her white lace gown, smiling up at James like he’s the only thing that matters in the world. 

Twenty, and she tells him grimly that she and James are going into hiding, hugging him tightly.

Twenty-one, and he’s at her funeral. Her eyes are closed, and he wonders how anyone can bear this suffocating grief.

The boy has Lily’s eyes, that particular, unmistakable shade of piercing emerald green. He doesn’t even have time to stop the words from falling out of his mouth.

“Harry Potter?”

Instantly, he regrets it. The boy—Harry—is frozen now, the smile still on his face. 

Remus doesn’t know what he expects Harry to do. Scream, maybe. Look at him with recognition. The one thing he doesn’t expect Harry to do, though, is run.

By the time his brain has caught up to his mouth, Harry is already gone. Remus look around wildly for him, but if it wasn’t for the trail of bread crumbs the flock of geese are feeding on, there would be no sign that Harry had been there at all.

For the next ten minutes, he paces restlessly, wondering if he had simply imagined it. Maybe he just saw what he wanted to, mistook one dark-haired boy for the one he’s been hoping to find for what seems like an eternity. It would make more sense than the other possibility—that he just _stumbled_ upon Harry in a Muggle park, out of sheer luck, and that the minute he opened his mouth, he somehow managed to thoroughly fuck it up. 

But then the teenage girl he saw before approaches him, panting, her eyes rimmed with red and panicked. “Excuse me, sir, but have you seen a boy about this tall?” She gestures with her hand, as if she can create his image out of thin air. “His name is Harry, and he’s got brown skin and green eyes?” 

“I have,” he says slowly, and now his heart has leapt up in his chest, threatening to beat out of it at any moment. “He was just feeding the geese here a few minutes ago. I’m sorry, but I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“It’s all right,” she says, and she seems to be trying fruitlessly to smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you for your help, sir.”

That night, he goes back to his shabby motel with a smile on his face. Yes, everything’s even more muddled now, from the question of Sirius to why Harry ran away from him like he was a ghost, and no, he didn’t get to talk to Harry, not really, but Harry’s _alive—_ he’s alive, and he looked well and healthy and _happy,_ and even if Remus has lost him again, he’ll find him soon. This he knows, just as much as he knows that the sun will rise the next morning and magic is real and somehow, improbably, he is still an optimist.

**Hogwarts, Scotland, October 1985**

It’s strange, being back at Hogwarts.

It takes him a week to stop feeling like an intruding student when he sits in on the mandatory staff meetings. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to call McGonagall Minerva, not without wanting to drown himself in the toilet immediately after. 

But it doesn’t take him much time at all to remember how much he loves teaching. He manages to procure an authentic Saxon tablet from the magical wing of the British Museum for his students, and they spend weeks puzzling over the crumbling tile. Ancient Runes wasn’t his favorite subject at Hogwarts—that was Defence, rotating door of teachers be damned—but he knows he’s good at it, and he didn’t dedicate his life to the academic theory of it for the money. 

And every time he steps into the Ancient Runes classroom, he’s reminded of the first time he served as a TA at UCL, the feeling that overcame him, the sense that this was how he would do good in the world, that this was his purpose—to help others learn, share the same joy in attaining knowledge that he felt. 

So he keeps an eye out for the students that seem to be taking Ancient Runes not simply to fulfill an elective requirement or please their parents but because they seem to genuinely enjoy the subject and all it offers. There’s Elena Montgomery, who has a knack for translation; there’s Ryan Liao, who keeps asking Remus to teach him how to cast runic-based defensive wards; and, of course, there’s Bill Weasley, who might just be the most talented student he’s ever come across.

Bill Weasley takes to Ancient Runes like a fish to water. By the third class, it’s clear that, even as a fourth year, he’s already capable of NEWT-level work. Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Bill ends up in the history books one day, and from what Remus can gather from conversations with his fellow professors, he’s just as gifted in his other classes as well.

Which is why it’s a surprise when Bill asks if he can stay after class one Tuesday seven weeks into the school year and then, sitting in Remus’s office with his mouth set in a grim line, tells Remus that he’s thinking of dropping Ancient Runes. Remus, pouring out two cups of tea, almost drops the teapot.

“Why on Earth would you do that, Mr. Weasley?” he asks, handing Bill a cup of warm chai, which he takes gratefully. 

“I always wanted to be a Curse-Breaker,” Bill starts. “But then the other day Elena asked you what Curse-Breakers actually do, and you talked to us about Gringotts and how retrieving artifacts can actually really hurt the people who the artifacts belonged to, especially in countries like Egypt and Syria and Iraq, and I—I just don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I want to do, and my mum already thinks I’m overstretching myself with five electives, and if I’m not going to be a Curse-Breaker, I might as well concentrate on my other classes.” 

“Being a Curse-Breaker doesn’t mean you have to loot and be complicit in colonialist practices,” Remus says. “There are ways to protect and restore artifacts without stealing them from the places they were made. Gringotts isn’t the only place that hires Curse-Breakers, you know.”

“I guess,” Bill says, still looking unsure. 

“And you don’t even need to be a Curse-Breaker to find a place for Ancient Runes in your life. There’s academia and research, of course, but there are also people who work in the Ministry, translating texts, and curators in magical museums.” Of course, most of those paths had been closed to Remus on account of his condition, but that doesn’t seem pertinent right now. “You have a true gift for this subject, and it would be a great loss to see it go to waste. Besides, Mr. Weasley, you’re only fourteen.”

“Almost fifteen,” Bill corrects, but he looks slightly cheerier. “Thanks for your help, Professor Lupin.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Remus smiles. 

The conversation with Bill lingers with him for the rest of the week. He thinks of himself at fifteen, already resigned to the fate of intermittent poverty assigned to him the moment he was bitten. He wonders, for the first time in many months, what his life would have been like if he hadn’t been a werewolf. Maybe he would have been an Unspeakable, one of his secret ambitions that he’d never quite been hopeful enough to voice. 

It’s a train of thought that becomes all the more prevalent when Snape—Severus, now, although the Potions professor still refuses to address Remus by anything other than Lupin—enters his office, a sneer on his face and a smoking goblet of Wolfsbane in his left hand.

“Severus,” Remus says, inclining his head. “Would you like to join me for tea?” He pours out a cup of oolong tea for himself, stirring in milk and adding a heaping spoonful of sugar. 

“Oh, spare me the pleasantries, Lupin,” Severus says. He narrows his eyes, looking at the periwinkle-patterned teacups suspiciously. “I wouldn’t put it past one of your kind to poison it.”

“I would _never_ do anything to intentionally harm a fellow staff member.” It doesn’t seem like a good time to make a joke about how Severus probably carries bezoars on him anyway. 

“You do know why Albus decided to hire you, don’t you?” Now, his eyes are glimmering with a casual malice. “There are rumors, Lupin, that you’re working with Black to corrupt the Potter boy and bring back the Dark Lord—or perhaps you’re simply fattening him up, like a lamb for the slaughter. I can’t confirm their veracity, of course, but I also can’t say they didn’t have a role in Albus deciding to keep a closer eye on you. Obviously, from what I’ve seen, it wasn’t for your teaching abilities.”

“Severus, you of all people should know perfectly well that I am not and have never been a Death Eater,” Remus sighs, choosing to ignore the other slights, no matter how much they hurt. He’s learned to pick his battles. “And I would never do anything to hurt Harry.”

“And you have a better explanation for your strange disappearances from Britain?” Remus starts, and Severus smiles bitterly. “Oh yes, I know all about those—I have my contacts at the Ministry, after all, and I took it upon myself to discover where you’ve been all these years when Albus hired you. Normal vetting procedures, of course.”

“You do realize that you’re not an Auror, Severus?” 

Severus shrugs. “I’m simply a concerned citizen, and it’s within my rights to ensure the safety of my students, especially if a teacher has certain unsavory affiliations. And it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve absolved Black of his sins. If I recall correctly, you were willing to forgive him for attempted murder.”

So they’re going to have this out, finally. He supposes it’s a long time coming—as far as he can remember, the only apology Sirius ever gave to Severus was a stilted, obviously forced one. And Severus obviously hasn’t forgiven Sirius.

“It took months for me to forgive him, Severus. I didn’t ignore what he had done at all,” Remus says. He can still remember the deep pang of betrayal he felt when he discovered what Sirius had done like it happened yesterday. He’d avoided Sirius—as best as anyone can avoid a best friend and roommate—for weeks. It had been James, finally, who had convinced Remus to talk to him. _I still don’t know why he did it, but maybe you can find out, with your canine wiles and everything,_ James had said, smiling, but his tone had been too serious for it to really be a joke. “But I can also understand your anger, and I assure you, I haven’t seen him in four years. It seems I don’t understand Sirius any better than you do.”

“Then where have you been, Lupin? I doubt you’ve been taking holidays.”

“I’ve been searching,” Remus starts. He realizes, suddenly, that this is the first time he’s actually admitted—or going to admit—what he’s been doing for the past four years of his life. Dumbledore must know, of course, because Dumbledore seems to know everything, but it isn’t like Remus had actually out and told him that he decided to globe-trot in hopes of just stumbling across Harry and Sirius. And he’s going to admit this to Severus Snape, who Remus is fairly certain would like to see nothing more than Remus’s death, preferably through the employment of an extraordinarily painful method. “I’ve been going around the world, searching for Sirius and Harry. So you were half right, I suppose—I’ve been looking for them, but I promise I’ve never been working with Sirius to hurt or deceive Harry.”

“And how has that gone, Lupin?” Severus seems to believe him, at least, but the bitterness is still present in the twist of his lips. “Have you managed to track down Black and bring back the _Boy-Who-Lived?”_

Somehow, Severus manages to make even an innocuous, positive title sound like the worst curse in human existence. 

Apparently, Remus is silent for a moment too long, because Severus keeps talking. “Or should I say the body of the Boy-Who-Lived? With someone like Black, I’d be surprised if the child isn’t dead by now.”

“Severus, I truly don’t understand how you can talk about Lily’s son like that,” Remus says quietly, because he’s through with trying to be polite and he knows exactly how to hit Severus where it hurts. “And I saw him. I found Harry. I didn’t find Sirius, but I found Harry. He’s alive, and he’s well, and he looked happy.”

“And tomorrow pigs will sprout wings and fly,” Severus says. “You know, Lupin, if you asked me ten years ago who I thought, out of your little group of friends, would go mad first, I would almost certainly have said Black. But it seems like you’re the one who’s suffering from delusions.”

“I did see him,” Remus says, more loudly this time. “I was in Hong Kong, and I saw him.”

“And in this little tale of yours, you then just let him go,” Severus says flatly. 

“He ran away from me,” Remus says, closing his eyes tightly. “I saw him, and then he ran away, but it was him, I know that. He was feeding the geese, and he was—he was happy. I know he was.”

Severus looks at him incredulously, but the bitterness is gone from his face now. Instead, he looks almost pitying, as though he really does think that Remus has finally gone round the bend. “Make sure to take your potion promptly,” Severus says simply, before he stands up, exiting the office and slamming the door behind him.

Remus buries his face in his hands and takes deep, shuddering breaths.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried to track Harry down, after that day in the park. On the contrary, he’d gone to Aberdeen Promenade three more times, three days in a row. He’d visited cafes and convenience stores and groceries, but there had been no further sightings of Harry.

Then, on the third day, he’d stumbled across the same teenage girl in a Fairwood, where she was reading a book over a plate of char siu and rice. He’d asked her, under the guise of a worried bystander, if she’d managed to find Harry, and she told him that, from what her grandmother had told her, Harry had somehow known that something was wrong at home and ran back to his flat to find his father. According to her grandmother, Harry’s father had been deeply apologetic for the misunderstanding and said that he and Harry would be returning to England for the time being, ostensibly to care for a sick uncle. 

Remus had puzzled over her explanation for days. As far as he knew, the only uncle Sirius had ever cared about was his Uncle Alphard, who had died during the winter of their sixth year. It was likely, then, that none of what Sirius had said to the girl’s family was true. 

But he still wonders if Sirius could really be in England, just one hop of Apparition away from Hogwarts. Maybe he’s gotten careless, and Harry is in London, blocks away from Diagon Alley. Maybe Remus will find them, and this time Harry won’t run away, and Sirius will explain why he decided to drop off the face of the Earth and betray James and Lily, and things will finally begin to make sense again. 

Maybe. Or maybe Remus is just hoping against hope again, like he always does.

He lets out one more deep breath and then stands up, wiping his face with his handkerchief. Then, he picks up the teapot and pours himself another cup of tea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a lot of good discourse about if the practice of curse-breaking as depicted in harry potter is inherently promoting imperialist beliefs. one article i enjoyed reading can be found here: https://animalarchaeology.com/2019/08/15/curse-breakers-and-thieves-looted-artefacts-the-antiquities-market-and-harry-potter-too/. 
> 
> as usual, kudos and comments fuel me!


	9. Beijing, 1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a siheyuan is a type of traditional home that was once commonplace throughout beijing.

**Beijing, China, August 1985**

The moment their train pulls into Beijing Station, Sirius breathes out a sigh of relief, even as a pang goes through his heart.

Harry had been too excited about simply being on a train to worry about why they were leaving Hong Kong, pulling Sirius down the long, thin aisles of the train in a fruitless search for the conductor and marveling over the way the countryside zoomed by them as the train sped along. For the bulk of their two-day journey, Harry’s own excitement had distracted Sirius too.

But now he has to actually figure everything out—exchange his money, find a place to live, make a home, start all over. Again. 

He’d chosen Beijing for the distance, largely. It’s far away from Hong Kong that whoever Harry met couldn’t trace them, but he should be at least minimally equipped to navigate the city with his knowledge of Mandarin, even if he’s never been here before. Once he and Harry are out of the station and in the city proper, though, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.

Growing up in a household where nearly everything was charmed or transfigured, Sirius notices things—things like the marked concentration or absence of magic. It’s nothing scientific, of course, but it’s always been there—a feeling in the back of his mind. Diagon Alley is overflowing with magical signatures, enchantments on top of enchantments. Aberdeen is nominally a Muggle neighborhood, but with Hong Kong’s population density and high concentration of wizards, it might as well be wizarding London.

But Beijing? Beijing feels like London did near the end of the war, full of dampened magic, as if something terrible is happening. As if magic is being hidden—out of necessity or fear.

There’s not much he can do now, though; the sun is setting rapidly in the distance, and he figures that he should start searching for lodging for the night.

“All right, then,” he says, both to Harry and himself. “Let’s find a hotel.”

The hotel is an austere one in Dongcheng, all straight-backed walls and hazy panes of glass. Harry falls asleep almost immediately, face-down on the bed, and Sirius chuckles as he moves Harry under the scratchy covers and tucks him in. Then, he paces around the hotel room, thinking.

He supposes he could find an apartment again, but any protective wards would stick out far more here than they did in Aberdeen, and he isn’t foolish enough to not cast any at all, if they’re going to be here permanently. Maybe—

No. He’s never been there, only ever seen the siheyuan in photographs. And who knows if its wards will even let him in, what with being disowned?

But he sees the photographs in his mind now, as clear as they were the day his mother showed them to him. She had been in one of her rare affectionate moods, and she had pulled out the dragonskin-bound photo album reverently. “This will be yours one day, my little star,” she had said, pointing at a photograph of her younger self, spinning around in a white dress in the courtyard of a siheyuan. “This was taken, oh, in 1932, I think, at the ancestral home in Chongwenmen. When you’re older, I’ll take you there, to Beijing, so you can see it for yourself. It’s your future, after all.”

He shudders now, thinking of the pampered prince he had once been, starved for his mother’s love. Before Hogwarts, before James, before he realized just how fucked up it was to live in a home where you could never be sure if your mother was about to hug or hex you.

But _Chongwenmen._ Just streets away from the hotel. And it would be heavily warded, he’s sure, if it was the ancestral home. It’s probably even safer than Grimmauld Place ever was. And it can’t hurt to just take a look and see if it’s fit for living, can it?

That night, his sleep is fitful, and he dreams of Grimmauld Place for the first time in years, its dark, winding hallways and stifling air, his father’s cold gaze, his mother’s high laugh, and he wakes up gasping, a caught scream in his throat.

He manages to put on a happy face for Harry in the morning, cajole Harry into eating tofu nao from the closest canteen for breakfast instead of jianbing from a food vendor. While they walk down Chongwenmen West Street, Harry swings from his left hand, chattering away about a song he’d heard a street musician perform, and Sirius looks around nervously, wondering if anyone’s searching for them here now, if anyone’s looking at them strangely, too closely—but no, he’s just being paranoid, and there’s no one. 

The gazes of shopkeepers pass over them like water, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. It’s strange to be uprooted again after four years of stability, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn’t let Harry go play with Lucas that day. 

They make their way into a thin alley, passing by abandoned bikes and leaning trees. He walks briskly, searching, until he sees it.

The siheyuan looks almost like it did in the pictures. It’s grand, indisputably, the pillars of the front gate painted red, fierce stone lions guarding the entrance, all curving roofs and sturdy walls. But the paint is peeling, and the homes surrounding it aren’t other siheyuans but instead more short, squat buildings like the hotel, Brutalist and bare. The few other siheyuans he can see, in the distance, are dusted with grey and have clearly seen better days.

He steps up to the front doors, observing the heavy locks. It might be blood-protected, like his Aunt Druella’s manor was, and he wonders if he could get away with cutting open his hand in public. Maybe he could Disillusion himself? He touches a hand to the door, wondering, and—

It opens. He’s fairly sure he’s never heard of any ward that opens just by touch, and he glances around nervously. Maybe the wards have fallen? But no, that seems unlikely, since he can feel the faint buzz of magic around the siheyuan.

“Where are we?” Harry asks, tugging at his hand.

“Our new home,” Sirius replies grimly. “Maybe.” 

He leads Harry through the doors and into a corridor. Looking around, he realizes that the siheyuan is surprisingly bare, save for one cracked porcelain vase he can spot out of the corner of his eye.

“What happened here?” he mutters to himself.

“Time,” a voice says in Mandarin, and he whirls around, hand going for his wand, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. “Welcome home, Mr. Black.”

“Harry, get behind me,” he hisses, and then turns his attention to the dark corner in front of him. “Who are you?” he demands, hand trembling as he grasps his wand tightly. “And how do you know who I am? Reveal yourself _now.”_

“Relax,” the voice says. Out of the shadows steps a young woman who looks to be around his age, give or take a year or two. Her clothing is clearly Muggle, flared jeans and a plain green t-shirt, and she has a wry smile playing on her lips. She holds up her hands. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Again, who are you and how do you know who I am?”

“You can just call me Wendy,” she says, her lips twisting. “It’s close enough to what you Westerners would call me anyway.”

“I’m not—”

“Aren’t you?” She looks him up and down with a piercing gaze, as though he’s a particularly unimpressive cockroach. “You’re an Englishman, no matter how you cut it. And I don’t know who you are exactly, Mr. Black, but I know you’re part of this family.”

“Are we cousins?” he asks nervously, and she laughs.

“No, but if it makes you feel better, we might as well be,” she says. 

“It doesn’t,” he says, thinking of Cousin Bella. He’s being too candid to this stranger, perhaps, but she only laughs again.

“Then I’m not,” she says. “I’m what you might call a Secret Keeper.”

“This is under a Fidelius?” he asks, bewildered. He knows far too well how that particular charm works, and he’s never heard of being able to see a location without actually being told the address or visiting the property beforehand. 

“A type of Fidelius,” she corrects. “All members of the House of Black can locate and open these doors. It’s old magic, older than you have in Britain.”

“So that’s how you knew who I was,” Sirius realizes, and she nods.

“To be fair, I’m not entirely sure who you are still,” she says. “Unless you’re willing to tell me?”

“Maybe later,” he says, giving her his most winning grin. She looks decidedly unimpressed. “By the way, could you tell me about all of this?” He gestures at the broken vase and the emptiness of the siheyuan, and she nods.

“I can lead you to a sitting room, and we can talk about this more over tea,” she says. Then, she seems to spot Harry, who’s still hiding behind Sirius’s legs. “Is that your son?”

“Harry,” Sirius says, in lieu of a yes or a no. Harry pokes his head out, waving shyly. “Right. Shall we go?”

The sitting room is well-maintained—in fact, after walking through more corridors and observing his surroundings, it might be the only well-maintained room in the entire siheyuan. In the corner sits what looks to be a makeshift stove top, an iron kettle sitting atop a burner. Wendy flicks her wand, and the kettle fills with water. Sirius sits uncomfortably on the edge of a red settee as Harry bounces up and down next to him, looking around the room. There’s a group of potted plants that appear to have been pampered all their lives, standing tall in thin vases. The coffee table is meticulously carved, a curving wooden dragon crawling across its edges. 

After what seems like an eternity, Wendy takes the water off the stove and transfers it to a small teapot. Pouring the tea into three leaf-shaped cups, she hands a cup each to Sirius and Harry. Sirius looks at his own cup dubiously, and Wendy rolls her eyes.

“You saw me make the tea,” she sighs. “If I wanted to harm you, I could have just cursed you when you walked through the door.”

Sirius hums. He doesn’t drink the tea.

Wendy sighs again. “Well, seeing as I don’t think you’re going to answer any of my questions until I answer yours, go ahead. Ask me what you want to know.”

“What happened here?” Sirius gestures in the air, trying his best to articulate what he means without words, but Wendy seems to understand.

“I don’t suppose you learn much about Chinese wizarding history at Hogwarts,” she says wryly, and Sirius shakes his head. “Well, while your lot were off doing your song-and-dance of persecuting Muggleborns and whatnot yet again—”

“It’s not like that doesn’t happen here,” Sirius snaps instinctively, because they’re in the _seat_ of the Black family, and if she wants to deny that his family is at the rotten core of blood purity, she has another thing coming. 

“I didn’t say it doesn’t,” Wendy replies calmly. “Anyway, Mr. Black, have you heard of a man named Mao Zedong?”

Sirius shakes his head, feeling as though he’s all of twelve again, the only student in Gryffindor who doesn’t know what electricity is. “Was he a wizard?”

“No, he wasn’t, and I suppose you wouldn’t have,” she says, muttering something under her breath about _horribly outdated curricula._ “How much has your family told you about your ancestry?”

Sirius laughs harshly. “What do you want to know? _Tonjours Pur?_ How our ancestors were the worthiest because we were descended from the first magic-users in the entire world? How the Xia Dynasty was _our_ rightful rule, and the Muggles had to go and ruin it all, damned be their free will and minds? How my mother _poisoned_ my brother and told us every day that Muggleborns weren’t worthy of the air they breathed?”

“A little bit later than that,” Wendy says. Somehow, she still manages to look amused, and Sirius hates her more with every passing minute. “I’m sure you know that this was the ancestral home, at least.” Sirius nods shortly, and she continues. “Right. From what my father told me, this siheyuan was built back in the sixteenth century, when Dongchen was still a wealthy commercial and governmental district. Magic was never as hidden here as it was in your Europe, though I’m sure your mother didn’t bother to tell you that. _Tonjours Pur,_ you say—that’s French, so your mother’s branch of the family must have gone over to the West in the mid-seventeenth century, then, when the Qing Dynasty took over.”

“But my mother was here when she was young,” Sirius says. “She showed me photographs of her in the courtyard.”

“She might have,” Wendy shrugs. “You have a large family, Mr. Black, and many of your relatives came to Beijing to vacation in the summertime from their homes in other cities or abroad. Like I said, this neighborhood was beautiful once, and the Chinese government never enforced the Statute of Secrecy as strictly as the Western ones did.”

“But what happened?” Sirius asks again.

“Time and war,” Wendy says simply. “You’ve heard of Grindelwald, haven’t you? Please say you have, or I’ll be forced to think that all you British wizards quite literally have no survival skills at all.”

“Of course I have,” Sirius says disdainfully. “What do you take me for, a troll?”

“You still haven’t drunk your tea, while your son has and is perfectly fine, so I think that says something about you,” she says. “Well, while Grindelwald was fighting his war in Europe, there was a war here too—a global war doesn’t just mean Germany and Britain and France, you know. But even before, things were unstable. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of communism?”

“Er—” Sirius wracks his brain for any recollection of the term, but he comes up empty. “I might have heard it in passing, once or twice.”

“What on _Earth_ is Hogwarts teaching you?” Wendy rolls her eyes again, and Sirius has to exert a great deal of effort to stop himself from hexing her. “How do I even explain this—right, so communism is an ideology, just like blood purity, except not like blood purity at all, really, created by Marx and all that, and oh, you won’t understand any of this, will you.”

“Again, I’m _not_ an idiot, contrary to what you might believe.” Sirius feels a tug on his shirt, looking down, and oh, right, Harry’s still here, a bored look on his face, and he has a feeling that this conversation isn’t exactly one he should be party to. “Er, Harry, why don’t you set up your train set in the corner over there?”

“Okay,” Harry says, bounding off the sofa and dragging his tiny suitcase along with him. 

“As I was saying,” Wendy clears her throat. “All you need to know for now is that communism is an ideology that aims to create a society without social classes, currency, or a governing state where everything is owned by the people.”

“Sounds kind of utopian,” Sirius remarks. A wizarding world without the Ministry of Magic—without its discriminatory legislation and backwards regulations—would probably be a better one, quite frankly. 

“It does, doesn’t it? At least in theory. In practice, though, it’s very different,” Wendy says. “So back about, oh, fifty or sixty years ago, there was a civil war here, between the Kuomintang and the Communist Party. Mao led the Communists. Up until the Second World War—or the Global Wizarding War, as you’d call it—the Kuomintang had control. Then the war came, and things pretty much went to shit. Not many spells can defend against bombs. It wasn’t really safe, to say the least, so what remained of the Black family here basically packed it up and went on a nice vacation to Switzerland.”

“Sounds like my family,” Sirius says bitterly.

“Anyway, a few of them stayed, mostly the elderly who were really attached to this siheyuan. Then the war ended, and the civil war started up again. Mao got the upper hand this time, so the rest of your family that was still here fled to Taiwan—they supported the Kuomintang—and they left my grandfather as the Secret Keeper. I think some of them had this wild idea that Mao would be toppled in a few months and everything would be back to normal.”

“By the way, who _are_ you?” Sirius interrupts. “Yes, yes, you’re Wendy, you’re the Secret Keeper, your grandfather was the Secret Keeper too, but what do you have to do with my family?”

“Honestly?” Wendy shrugs. “I don’t really know myself. My best guess is that our families were close, once upon a time, and your family obviously trusted my family enough to let us pass down this mantle. My grandfather made my father the Secret Keeper before he passed, and then my father did the same for me.”

“How do you not know?”

“Well, my father died when I was all of seven, so you can see how I might not have all the answers,” Wendy says shortly. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says, as genuinely as he can. 

Wendy waves away his apology. “You didn’t know.”

“So Mao took over. What’s the big deal? This still doesn’t explain why—why it seems like Beijing’s been stripped of magic, basically.”

“Well, setting aside the whole Great Leap Forward and Great Famine business for now, since I don’t think I can explain that to you without also explaining collectivization and backyard furnaces, Mao didn’t like magic, to say the least.”

“What, did he try to bring back witch hunts?”

Wendy snorts. “He didn’t _fear_ magic. Honestly, I think he probably understood it more than most wizards. He understood what it could do. He understood that with a wand, a landowner could force any number of peasants to do their bidding. He understood that if you put a village under the Imperius, you could lead a revolution. He understood that if you decided to Obliviate your neighbors, you could rewrite history and no one would stop you. No, he didn’t try to burn people at the stake or anything. He turned us against each other—got the collaborators he needed, gave them power, and told the rest of us to get out or shut up.”

“And that _worked?”_ Sirius says incredulously. “What, no one tried to fight back?”

“Again, he had witches and wizards on his side too,” Wendy says. “Sure, you could try to fight back. But no one’s going to mourn you when they find you face-down in a ditch.”

“But there are ways to fight,” he says. “There always are—you can organize, and you can make plans, and you can spy, and you can turn people, and he wasn’t even a _wizard_ —”

“It was different with Mao,” Wendy says. “Not all of the collaborators were there for the power. A lot of them believed. Hell, a lot of the non-collaborators believed. You try going to bed hungry every night and knowing that half your village was burned to the ground in a war and see how you like it. Are you still going to think the most important thing is making sure that Muggleborns and Muggles are stomped into the ground, or are you going to listen to the Muggle with ideas who’s the first person in your lifetime who wants to actually make a change for the better? And terror’s a weapon too—his followers burned three wizarding schools to the ground with Fiendfyre, ones in Tianjin and Chongqing and Nanjing. If your child had died in one of those attacks—if Harry had died—wouldn’t you want to hide too?”

“Shut up,” Sirius snaps, because now he’s thinking of Godric’s Hollow, Harry in a pile of rubble, James and Lily dead, dead, dead, and he feels as though he’s twenty-two again, breaking down every night at the kitchen table, and this isn’t supposed to happen anymore, it’s not, it’s _not._ He takes deep, gulping breaths and buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. No, Harry’s fine. They’re in a siheyuan in Beijing that’s heavily warded. They’re safe. There’s no Voldemort, no Death Eaters here. Just him, Harry, and Wendy. He lifts his head up and sighs. Wendy’s looking at him with wide eyes, as though he might break at any second.

“I’m sorry,” Wendy says. “I’m so sorry. My father always told me I was too brash.” At this, she rubs her eyes and sighs. “Do you want me to keep going?”

He could tell her to stop. He could tell her to get out, and he could set about cleaning up the siheyuan himself, making it fit to live in. “Keep going.”

“The richest families fled, just like yours—mostly to Taiwan, there’s a wizarding school now that’s modeled on one of the American wizarding schools. Not Ilvermorny—it might be the one on the West Coast, one of the really liberal ones. The rest of us hid, if we could. A lot of the wizarding schools closed down, some permanently. And no one searched very hard for Muggleborns back then—if you weren’t deemed loyal enough, you could be killed just for doing so,” Wendy says. 

“How did you learn magic then?” Sirius asks curiously.

“Well, firstly, I’m not Muggleborn. And things got better eventually,” Wendy shrugs. “I wasn’t old enough to go to school yet when the worst of the Cultural Revolution was happening—that made basically all the wizarding schools here shut down for about a decade, by the way. My mother taught me at home when she could, in secret, and I was an exchange student about six years ago at Ilvermorny—their President at the time was very big on improving international wizarding relations.”

“How much better _are_ things now? Everything still feels—dampened, like I said before,” Sirius says. “Like people are trying to hide their magic.”

“Well, they are,” Wendy says. “Look, the worst of this happened barely a decade ago. People are still scared. They aren’t sure that the government won’t turn around and dissolve the wizarding legislature again and close down all the schools. Even in your war with Grindelwald, no one ever tried to burn down Hogwarts.”

Not even Voldemort had dared to do that. Hogwarts had always seemed sanctified, incapable of being damaged by the horrors of war. He tries to imagine someone taking to it with Fiendfyre and Blasting Curses, taking down its millennia-old foundations. He can’t do it. 

“Is it safe to use magic, then?” he asks, fingers tightening around his wand involuntarily. 

“In some spaces,” she admits. “You can find the Wizarding Square in Xicheng—there’s a secret entrance in the Drum Tower that shouldn’t be too hard to find. And obviously, no one’s going to tell that you’re using magic in here. But it’s never a mistake to assume that you aren’t safe—the punishments for breaking the Statute here became a lot harsher under Mao, and the current government hasn’t done much to change that.”

“Wonderful,” Sirius says sarcastically. He sighs. “Thank you for telling me all of this, though.”

“No problem,” Wendy says, giving him a sardonic smile that seems to imply that it was indeed a problem. “Anything else you’d like to know before I go? I’ve got things to do, you know.”

“What were you doing here today?” Sirius asks. “I mean, you were just sitting here when we walked in, skulking around in the shadows.”

“Skulking!” Wendy laughs. “It’s nice and cool in the siheyuan. Lots of shade. It’s a good place to think.”

Sirius has a feeling that she’s not telling him the whole story, but he doesn’t ask any further questions. He watches as she slips out of the sitting room, stepping over the doorsill gracefully. His tea is still untouched, and as he moves a hand to grasp his cup, he realizes that it’s gone cold. 

**Beijing, China, November 1985**

“Harry!” Sirius calls. The snow is coming down more heavily now, and Harry laughs, attempting to catch snowflakes in his mitten-clad hands. “Can you come inside soon? It’s getting dark.”

Without looking at him, Harry gives him a thumbs-up, and Sirius ducks back into the warmth of his room. Honestly, he doesn’t know how Muggles can manage to survive without Warming Charms. 

Beijing is—different from Hong Kong, to say the least. There, even with everything, he’d never felt unsafe, really. Here, even though he knows, realistically, that no Aurors or Death Eaters are searching for him, he always feels as though he’s being watched. Maybe it’s the constant warnings Wendy gives when she pops in during the mornings, telling him to _be careful, make sure that no one sees you casting a spell in the street,_ which, really, Sirius isn’t an idiot. He hadn’t done that even when he _was_ in Hong Kong.

And Harry’s accidental magic—well. He’s performing more small acts of magic now, sometimes so accurate that Sirius suspects they’re deliberate, like the time he managed to vanish all the seeds from his tanghulu. He doesn’t think it’s enough that anyone besides him would notice, but he still worries. 

“Baba, come look!” Harry shouts, and Sirius ducks outside again, throwing a scarf around his neck.

“What’s up, Harry?” Sirius asks, wading through the thin coating of snow to the center of the courtyard. Harry holds out something proudly, and Sirius looks closer before failing to hold in a gasp.

It’s a snowflake. An enormous snowflake, roughly the size of a Christmas ornament. 

“Harry, did you make this?” Sirius asks, examining it. It’s undeniably beautiful, in any case, all of the small ice crystals magnified and glistening.

“Dunno,” Harry shrugs. “I just wanted it to be bigger, so I could see everything more clearly, and it grew.”

“This is amazing, Harry,” Sirius says sincerely. “Now, can we go inside? I’m freezing to death out here.” 

Harry sticks out his tongue at Sirius, but he dutifully follows him inside. Sirius casts a quick stasis spell on the snowflake to ensure it doesn’t melt, placing it gently on top of his dresser. 

Dinner is simple—Sirius has resorted to improvised hot pot for the past few nights, figuring that some warmth is definitely needed now that winter’s decided to rear its head—and after Harry’s all tucked into bed and snoring away, Sirius sits in his armchair and wonders. If Harry can manage what’s effectively an Engorgio without even really trying, he’s going to need proper training eventually. Sirius could homeschool him, or maybe send him to that Taiwanese wizarding school, but—

No. Harry will go to Hogwarts. He deserves to see where his parents once learned and laughed and loved. Sirius just has to find a way to make it happen.

Sirius has been thinking about this a lot recently. With every passing day, it becomes clear that they can’t—they shouldn’t—stay much longer in Beijing. It’s been hard for Harry to make friends here, not least because the majority of the buildings surrounding their siheyuan are the homes of office workers, and even if the siheyuan isn’t anything close to Grimmauld Place, Sirius still has an instinctive distrust of it. 

But how can they leave? How can they leave if the Ministry of Magic is still chasing after them? How can they leave if there are Death Eaters lurking in broad daylight? It seems impossible. 

And then he gets an idea. Right now, nearing midnight and wrapped in his most comfortable robe, Sirius feels more courageous than he has in a long while. He still has all the letters to Remus, addressed and stamped and unsent. He’s been writing even more recently, for lack of anything better to do. And there’s a post office just a few streets down, one that allows him to send mail abroad.

He bundles up the letters—nearing a hundred in total now—into a parcel, wrapping it up with brown paper and applying a strong Sticking Charm. The letters will help him plead his case to Remus, and maybe then—maybe they can find a way to make everything work out. Together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for the lack of wolfstar fluff in this chapter—we'll get to it, i swear! i love writing fluff very, very much; i just really wanted sirius to grapple with his family/modern history for a bit. 
> 
> i tried my best to fit chinese wizarding history into real-life events—i figure that there would be at least some overlap, especially with upheavals like the chinese civil war. on a related note, i wonder what happened with magic under the ussr. i'm also ignoring jkr's insistence that there's only one magical school for all of asia, because really, what the fuck. 
> 
> also, no more baits and switches! these letters are actually being sent out to remus, i promise.
> 
> i have lots of thoughts about wendy + her character that i wasn’t able to fit into this chapter, so if you’d like to hear more about her + her backstory, just drop a comment + i’ll tell you!
> 
> on an unrelated note, if you'd like to check out a much fluffier story, i've just posted the first chapter of my next fic, a moony has spawned in the server. it's a light-hearted modern day texting au, and i hope you enjoy it if you decide to check it out!
> 
> as always, kudos + comments fuel me! just a few more chapters to go!


	10. Hogwarts and The Burrow, 1985

**Hogwarts, Scotland, November 1985**

Bill Weasley loves his mum. 

Sure, sometimes she worries and fusses too much, but all things considered, there’s no one on Earth Bill would rather have as his mother than her. The best thing about her is that she genuinely cares—cares about everyone around her, no matter who they are. When Bill was a first year and he noticed Evelyn Lim crying in the Common Room because she missed her father and couldn’t write to him because he was an Unspeakable and on a mysterious mission abroad, he wrote a letter to his mum, and the next week, Evelyn got a bag of sweets along with Bill. 

But sometimes his mum—well, she can be overbearing. Sometimes, she’ll owl him one too many times a week and cause all the other Gryffindor boys to mock him gently for it. The moment he opens up to her just the tiniest bit, she’ll ask too many questions and barge her way into every little part of Bill’s life.

Like right now. He squints, rereading the latest letter from his mum for the fourth time in a row, just to make sure he isn’t hallucinating.

_Oh, Bill, I’m glad to hear that Professor Lupin’s been such a big help in your studies, and that he’s helping you figure out a career path too. Give him my thanks, won’t you?_

_By the way, your Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon (bless their souls) were friends with your Professor Lupin back in the war. He’s had such a tragic life, the poor man, and he’s still so young. I’m sure he’d rather come over to our home for a warm holiday meal than stay at Hogwarts alone! Give him the invitation for dinner, at least, and tell him it’s a standing one!_

“Can you believe her?” he bemoans to Evelyn, sitting beside him. She’s buried in their Ancient Runes textbook, trying to finish up the remainder of their homework before class, and she looks up, the barest hint of a smile on her face. 

Evelyn shrugs. “I mean, it’s not the worst thing she could have done. It’s just having Professor Lupin over for dinner.”

“It’s not _just_ having Professor Lupin over for dinner,” Bill says, rolling his eyes. “Who’s ever heard of inviting a _teacher_ to Christmas dinner? Merlin, my mum has no boundaries at all.”

“She did say that your uncles were friends with him. Maybe she knows him?” Evelyn tucks a lock of bobbed dark hair behind her ear. “Besides, I’d _love_ to have Professor Lupin over for dinner.” She winks.

“Gross, Evelyn,” Bill shudders. “He’s _old.”_

“Oh, grow up, William,” Evelyn laughs. “He’s what, twenty-five? That’s hardly old.”

“Again, he’s our _teacher,”_ Bill says. Though that doesn’t seem to have stopped every single girl (and some boys) in his Ancient Runes class from sighing over Professor Lupin. He supposes that he’s pretty young, in comparison to someone like McGonagall or Flitwick, but Snape’s young too, isn’t he, and no one has a crush on _him._ Sure, Professor Lupin’s funny, and he’s objectively an amazing teacher, but that’s hardly swoon-worthy, is it?

“I mean, _obviously,_ it’s not going to happen,” Evelyn says. “But he’s nice to look at, don’t you think?” 

“No,” Bill grumbles, clenching the letter in his hands tightly. “I don’t see it.”

“Boys,” Evelyn sighs. “So blind.”

“Sure,” Bill says. For some reason, hearing Evelyn talk about Professor Lupin’s perceived appeal makes him want to break a quill. It’s the same feeling he got when she went with Matthew Abbot to Hogsmeade last month. It’s a very confusing feeling, frankly. 

“Besides,” Evelyn continues, “I don’t think it’s _that_ weird. Think of it this way. I bet your dad’s had loads of his Ministry coworkers over for dinner before, yeah?”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“If Professor Lupin was just another Ministry employee that you’d never met, would you still find it weird?”

“But he’s not a Ministry worker,” Bill snaps. “He’s my teacher! The only place I want to see him is at Hogwarts! Teachers aren’t supposed to have, well, you know—”

“Lives and interests?” Evelyn cocks an eyebrow. “Of course they do. They’ve got families and hobbies and the lot, just like us. I bet you wouldn’t believe me if I told you Professor McGonagall was married either."

“What?” Bill shakes his head. “You know what, ignore that. This is ridiculous, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He stands up, searching under the couch cushions for his bag and parchment. “Come on. We’ve got class now anyway.”

Somehow, he manages to enjoy Ancient Runes still, though he pays more attention than usual to Evelyn, sitting in her usual seat next to him. He’s pleased to see that she’s not fawning over Professor Lupin, at least not visibly. Class goes by quickly—translating a Mesopotamian document, discussing the ancient wizarding city of Bablyon, and then a long tangent about djinns and if it would ever be in one’s best interest to make a deal with them—and he’s just about to leave his seat and walk back to the Common Room when Evelyn nudges him. 

“Your mum’s letter,” she reminds him. “You’ve got to invite Professor Lupin over for Christmas Dinner, right?”

Bill rolls his eyes. “I think I’m going to just forget about it or pretend I never got the letter in the first place.”

“Oh, but then your mum’s just going to keep reminding you—or, worse, she’ll owl Professor Lupin herself,” Evelyn says knowingly, and Bill sighs. She would—and then she’d probably send him a Howler about how he’s not meant to ignore her messages and is breaking her heart by doing so.

“Fine,” Bill says, standing up. “Wait up for me?”

Evelyn nods, and she follows the rest of the class out of the room. Bill takes a deep breath, still clutching the letter in his hand, and waits for Professor Lupin to return from the doorway, where he’s saying goodbye to the rest of the class.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Weasley?” Professor Lupin asks, sliding back into his chair. “Any feedback on today’s lesson, by the way?”

“I thought it was great, Professor Lupin,” Bill replies. “I’d love to learn more about djinns in the future.”

“Yes, we did get a bit off-track there,” Professor Lupin says wryly. “I’ll see if I can bring in any relevant texts to that matter in the future.”

“That’d be amazing,” Bill says enthusiastically. And then he remembers what he came here to do, and his face falls. “By the way, Professor—er, do you know my mum?” Instantly, he wants to kick himself, but Lupin just smiles. 

“Molly, right? I didn’t know her quite as well as Fabian, but she was always kind to me,” Lupin says. “She made the best chicken pot pie I’ve ever eaten.”

“She’s a great cook,” Bill agrees. “Right, so I wrote my mum about, you know, lessons and all that, and I might have mentioned you in one of them and said you were a really great teacher, and now she’s got it into her head that she’s got to have you over for Christmas dinner, to repay you and all that.”

Lupin blinks. “Well, that’s very kind of her, but teaching’s my job. I don’t need to be repaid for just doing what I’ve been hired to do.”

Not for the first time, Bill is pleasantly struck by just how reasonable Professor Lupin is. He nods in agreement, before realizing that doing so might seem very rude. Lupin doesn’t seem to have noticed, though.

“I also don’t tend to celebrate Christmas,” Lupin continues, his lips twisting. 

“What?” Bill asks incredulously. “I mean, why wouldn’t you?”

“In my family’s faith, it’s not very common to do, even in Britain,” Lupin explains. “Of course, it’s quite hard to get away with not participating in the festivities here at Hogwarts, but otherwise, I don’t do much for the holiday.”

“Oh.” Christmas has always been a big day in their household—in fact, Bill can’t even remember a time when his home wasn’t full of cheer and laughter on the holiday. 

“I’m sure your mother would prefer to spend Christmas with just her family anyway,” Lupin says, standing up from his desk. As he does so, for the first time, Bill notices that the ends of his sleeves are frayed, as though he’s tried to re-patch his suit jacket one too many times but hasn’t ever really gotten the knack of a Sewing Charm. He thinks of his own mother, darning his sweaters, and Evelyn’s words— _they’ve got families and hobbies and the lot, just like us—_ come uncomfortably to the front of his mind. He wonders if anyone’s ever bothered to darn Lupin’s sweaters for him. 

“Actually, I don’t think she would mind too much,” Bill’s traitorous mouth says. “We’ve had some of Dad’s coworkers over for Christmas hols before, just for a meal or two. And if Mum invited you, she must mean it.”

“It’s a very gracious offer, certainly,” Lupin says, gathering up his papers. “I just wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Bill says with more conviction. “And—you don’t have to say yes now, of course, but I’m sure my mum wouldn’t mind you giving her an owl once you’ve come to a decision.”

Lupin smiles again. “I’ll do that, then.” He glances up at the clock. “I’ve got some grading to do—”

“Oh, er, sorry,” Bill says, realizing that he’s probably been monopolizing Lupin’s time. “Thanks for the lesson again, Professor!” He hoists his book-bag up and over his shoulder and rushes out of the classroom. He smiles when he sees Evelyn, leaning up against the wall with an air of practiced nonchalance. 

“Thanks for waiting,” he says, bumping her shoulder. “It took longer than I thought it would.”

“No kidding,” Evelyn rolls her eyes, but she smiles warmly. Bill has a feeling that his day’s going to be looking up from here.

**The Burrow, England, December 1985**

The lane up to the home of Arthur and Molly Weasley is long and winding, and as Remus walks, he finds himself studying the landscape around him, blanketed with a fresh sheet of snow. 

He’d waited three weeks before finally accepting Molly’s invitation. For three weeks, he’d tried to convince himself that he would be fine staying at Hogwarts, enjoying the nightly feasts and making up late grading. Then, of course, the letters had to come.

It happened on a Saturday, because most drastic changes in his life did. On that Saturday, he received an owl from the Hogsmeade Post Office, notifying him that he’d received a package transported by Muggle mail. 

He wasn’t quite sure what he had been expecting—perhaps a package from his father—but whatever he had in mind, it certainly wasn’t a five-pound parcel of letters. The return address had been unfamiliar—Stephen Hau, East Damochang Street, Chongwenmen, Beijing—but he recognized the hand, that perfect curled script. It was Sirius’s, undeniably.

It had taken hours for him to scrounge up the courage to open the package. He’d cast any number of detection spells on it, checking to see if there were any latent curses, if this was how he would die—at twenty-five, in his office, a half-drunk cup of tea by his side. 

But nothing had shown up, not even a minor jinx, and in the end, he’d taken a deep breath and cut it open. Inside, he’d found an enormous pile of letters—some written on parchment, some on lined notebook paper, one on what looked to be the back of a crossword. All from Sirius.

He’d spent hours poring over them, reread every explanation and anecdote Sirius wrote down. And he’d come away only more confused, somehow—finally, a reason for Sirius and Harry’s complete disappearance, a complete chronicle of what had happened that Halloween night, yet if Sirius could write a hundred letters, why couldn’t he send even one of them until now? Was Sirius telling the truth, or had he finally figured a way to cover up his tracks? 

He didn’t even know what to _do_ with the letters. The logical thing would be to turn them in to Dumbledore, or maybe the Ministry, so they could finally find Sirius—but for some reason, he couldn’t bear to do that. He’d thought of the Harry he’d met in Hong Kong, who had looked happy and healthy and cared for, and he figured that whatever Sirius had done, he seemed to be a good guardian. 

Eventually, he’d decided to not think about them too much. Of course, he also couldn’t help but think about them, most of the time, because they sat on the left corner of his desk in his room in the castle, and when he went to turn out the light to go to bed every night, he would see them, and his heart would threaten to beat out of his chest.

And thus came the second decision—to get out of Hogwarts for the holidays, or he’d go insane just looking at the letters. And so he’d accepted Molly’s invitation, bought a nice embroidered potholder as a present, and notified Dumbledore that he would be visiting The Burrow on Christmas Day.

Finally, he reaches the end of the lane. He walks up to the door, knocking twice, and moments later, he finds himself face-to-face with a grinning Arthur Weasley.

“Welcome, welcome!” Arthur says, shaking his hand. “We’re so happy to have you, Remus. Molly’s been working all day, but she’s excited to see you too—from what she’s said, you’ve been an amazing teacher for Bill.”

“Hopefully,” Remus says, smiling. “How’s work?”

“Oh, the same,” Arthur says, ushering Remus inside. “Cursed artifacts—there always seem to be more of them this time of year—enchantments gone wrong on Muggle cooking equipment and the like.”

“Cursed artifacts?” Remus asks with interest, and Arthur takes that as a cue to discuss a recent raid on the old home of Evan Rosier.

“—it’s taken years, you see, but thank Merlin we finally got that warrant approved,” Arthur says as they enter the kitchen. “You wouldn’t believe all the cursed jewelry we found.”

“Is that Remus Lupin?” Molly says, turning around. She beams at him. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you, dear. You’re far too thin—what have they been feeding you at Hogwarts? Do I need to owl Dumbledore about this?”

“I’m fine, Molly,” Remus laughs. He remembers her more vividly now, her caring nature that came to her as easily as breathing. “Thank you for having me.”

“Like I told you in my letter, it’s no problem at all,” she says. “Now, be a dear and help me stir this, won’t you?” She hands him a bowl filled with dough, and he takes it gladly. 

While they cook, Molly keeps up a steady flow of conversation—mostly one-sided, but Remus finds himself listening intently.

“—and you know Charlie, don’t you? He’s a second year now, loves Quidditch with all his heart. Percy will be going to Hogwarts in two years, and Fred and George in four. Ron and Ginny still have some time before they go, but they’re already so very excited,” she says, taking a casserole out of the oven. “Would you set this on the table, Remus? I’ll call the rest down for dinner.”

“Of course,” Remus replies. The dining room is already full of chatter and laughter, two of the boys—Fred and George, then—chasing another around the table.

“Boys!” Molly appears suddenly, a roast turkey in her hands. “Have you all washed up?”

“Yes, Mum,” the three boys chorus. 

“Good, good. Can you go fetch your brothers and Ginny?”

They nod, and there’s a flurry of motion as they scramble upstairs, shouting all the while. Molly rolls her eyes fondly.

“I’m sorry about all the commotion, Remus,” she says, but Remus shakes his head.

“I’ve dealt with much worse,” he replies. With James, Peter, and Sir—no. He told himself he wouldn’t think about that. Not anymore. 

“Mum!” One of the twins calls. “Percy won’t come downstairs—he says Scabbers is trying to run away!”

Molly sighs. “Percy’s rat,” she says, by way of an explanation. “He’s been jittery all day.”

And he wouldn’t think much of it, except—he’s spent every night for the past two weeks thinking of stags and rats and dogs, and instinctively, he thinks _Peter._ But no, that’s ridiculous—Peter’s dead, his murder unsolved still, and rats are a fairly common household pet anyway, aren’t they? 

“Well, I hope Scabbers is okay,” Remus says. Mere seconds later, he hears stomps come down the stairs, and the rest of the Weasleys burst into the dining room. The one who must be Percy is clutching a cage in his arms. 

“Scabbers doesn’t like to be locked up,” Percy sulks. 

“Well, we had to stop him from running away somehow,” Bill reasons. “Come on, Perce, just set him down next to the table or something.”

Percy does just that, and for a second, Remus gets a passing glance at Scabbers, and—

Maybe he’s finally gone mad, like Severus has been insinuating for the better part of three months. But he knows that rat, the color of its fur. He knows the way it scrabbles around its cage, itching to be freed. He knows that squeak, even five years later.

Almost instinctively, he pulls out his wand and stuns the rat. For a moment, there is silence. Then, Percy screams, and the room bursts into a commotion.

“Remus!” Molly chides, rushing over to Percy to envelope him in a firm hug. “What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

His hand trembling, Remus points at the now-still rat that just might be Peter Pettigrew. “Molly, I think—I think that rat is an Animagus.”

**Hogwarts, Scotland, December 1985**

Minerva McGonagall has had any number of remarkable Christmases. She’s borne witness to enchanted mistletoe gone wild, food charmed to dance across the tables of the Great Hall, and far too many instances of Muggleborn students receiving electronic presents that caused minor explosions.

Never before, however, has she seen Remus Lupin march into the castle with a caged rat in his hands, looking grim and nervous, the entire Weasley family trailing behind him. One of the younger sons looks to be wiping tears from his eyes. 

“Remus, what on Earth is happening here?” she asks, perplexed. 

Remus looks at her, his chin set in a firm line. “Is Professor Dumbledore in his office?” he asks, avoiding her question. “I think—I believe I have something important to bring to his attention.”

“To the best of my knowledge, he should be,” she replies, and resolves to follow Remus there. They walk in a long line, ignoring the whispers of the portraits, until they reach the Stairwell Gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office.

“Fizzing Whizbees,” she says crisply, and the staircase appears. 

Inside his office, Albus looks to be organizing a large set of handsomely wrapped books, and his face lights up when he sees the gathering. “No one told me I should be expecting visitors tonight,” he chuckles. Remus’s face, however, shows no signs of levity.

“Colloportus.” Remus points his wand at the door, locking it, but his eyes are still fixed on the rat in the cage. 

“What can I do for you, Remus?” Albus asks, clasping together his hands. 

Instead of answering, Remus mutters a spell under his breath, his hand shaking, and instantly, before her eyes, the rat is transforming into a man with straw-blond hair and pale blue eyes.

“Peter Pettigrew?” she gasps. By her side, the previously crying boy is shaking, and he clutches tightly to Molly’s robes. Oddly enough, however, a look of calm has passed over Remus’s face, and he looks curiously unfazed.

“Professor, you wouldn’t happen to have any Veritaserum, would you?” Remus asks, turning to Albus, and Minerva has the unsettling feeling that she—and everyone else—is about five steps behind Remus. 

Albus’s face is suddenly pale, and he nods gravely. Then, as if a rat turning into a man long thought dead is an everyday occurrence, he smiles again. “Well! It seems that Christmas will always be a day for mildly unsettling revelations!”

Around half an hour later, a muttering, obviously displeased Severus is administering a vial of Veritaserum to a newly revived, chattering Peter Pettigrew, who has been bound to a chair by a set of hefty chains. “Remus, please understand, I’m innocent, I’m innocent, I hid because I had to,” he babbles. A second later, she can see the Veritaserum being forced down his throat, and his eyes take on a glassy sheen. 

“Please state your name and date of birth,” Albus says. 

“My name is Peter Pettigrew. I was born on April seventeenth of 1960,” Peter says in a monotone.

“Good, good,” Albus says. “Thank you, Severus, for making such an effective potion.” In the corner, Severus simply grunts, crossing his arms over his chest disinterestedly. 

“Who was James and Lily’s Secret Keeper?” Remus demands, his voice shaking.

“I was the Secret Keeper of the Potters,” Peter says in the same dull voice, and she can hear Remus let out a shuddering sigh, while behind her, Molly Weasley gasps. “Sirius convinced James that he would be too obvious a choice. They turned to me instead.”

“Did you tell Voldemort—” And here, she can hear Molly gasp again. “Did you tell Voldemort willingly of their location?”

“I did,” Peter confirms. “I knew that the Dark Lord was doubting my loyalty—that he would have me killed if I didn’t do more to further his plans. When James and Lily made me their Secret Keeper, I knew what I needed to do. Oh, it hurt to do it, I’ll grant you that, but I needed to stay alive.”

Beside her, Remus is trembling with barely suppressed rage. “And you let Sirius take the fall for your crime.”

“It was a necessary action,” Peter intones. 

“Why did you hide?” Remus demands. “What happened to your flat?”

“When I learned that the Dark Lord had been defeated, I knew I would be blamed by my fellow followers,” Peter says, his eyes still glazed. “Bellatrix and Barty would almost certainly be searching for me, at least, and I knew I had to find a way to convince them that I had already been punished by another. The blood was my own. I cast a Bloodletting spell and then splattered it across my walls. I let the Ministry make its own conclusions from there. It was easier to hide as a rat than a human, and when the Weasley boy found me, I decided to stay. No one would be looking for poor, dead Peter there. I would be safe. I would be a good pet, a good familiar for the boy—safe from the Death Eaters, from Sirius.”

“But then I found you,” Remus finishes. “I found you anyway, and you knew I was coming, so you tried to run, but you didn’t manage to do it in time.” Remus steps forward, his wand in hand, as if in a trance, and for a moment, she wonders if she’s about to witness Remus doing the unforgivable. A second later, however, Albus catches his arm. 

“There is no need for you to exact vengeance today, Remus,” Albus says softly. “However, I do believe it’s far past time for us to have a meeting with Minister Bagnold.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've recently posted a canon compliant one-shot of remus in the lost years (ft. the leather jacket of despair) + another chapter of my modern texting au, so if you'd like to read more of my writing, check those out!
> 
> kudos + comments fuel me! <3


	11. Beijing, 1986

**Beijing, China, February 1986**

Today, the city is beautiful. 

Red and yellow lanterns hang from doorways, beckoning in the new year. The streets are full of joyful frenzy, women wearing elaborate floral headdresses and streamers hanging from the branches of empty-leafed trees.

Harry laughs as he pulls Sirius through the winding streets of Wangfujing, which is brimming with people even in the early morning. He lets himself be carried along by the crowds, grateful for the distraction of the Lunar New Year celebrations. 

It’s been months, and Remus still hasn’t replied to his letters, not by owl or Muggle post, which can’t be a good sign. On the other hand, no Aurors have shown up on his doorstep either, which is hopeful. 

The best case scenario is that Remus never received the letters in the first place, that they got lost somewhere over the Caucasus Mountains. The worst case scenario is that he got them and doesn’t believe Sirius anyway. 

But that’s no matter now. Not today, when it’s a brisk, refreshingly cold day and the year ahead is full of possibility. Not when he can spend the day spoiling Harry, buying him a new picture book at the bookstore and two glistening tanghulus for them to eat from a street vendor. 

Harry starts yawning audibly near noon, which Sirius takes as a sign to bring them back to the siheyuan for an afternoon nap. Harry swings from his hand as they walk back slowly, occasionally stopping to marvel at some of the more spectacular decorations lining the street. 

Finally, after the better part of an hour, they make it back to East Damochang Street, which is nearly empty but for a strange man sitting on the curbside. The man has light brown hair, is wearing a shabby cardigan that’s far too light for this weather, is carrying a worn blue knapsack, and oh. Oh, fuck.

“Remus?” Sirius asks incredulously. The stranger looks up, and Sirius’s breath catches in his throat. He knows those warm brown eyes too well, from seven years in the same room and two more in the same flat, from stolen kisses in broom cupboards and open kisses in clubs and bed. 

“Padfoot,” Remus says, inclining his head slightly. For some reason, he doesn’t look surprised at all.

“Er—” Sirius scans the street, his hand reaching for the wand in his back pocket. “You’d tell me if there’s a team of Aurors hiding here, ready to take me away, right?”

“No Aurors here, I swear,” Remus says, holding up his hands. He has a small smile on his face, and it doesn’t _look_ like he’s about to whip out his wand and curse Sirius. And Remus has always been pants at lying, the worst of them all, so it’s probably safe to trust him, at least for now. 

“All right. You’d better come in, by the way, unless you want to freeze to death here,” Sirius says. He feels a tug at his hand and looks down to find Harry, who looks simultaneously scared and confused. “Oh, right. Harry, this is Moony—Remus. I’ve told you stories about him, remember?”

“Oh!” Harry’s face brightens. “Yeah, he talks about you loads and loads. He says you were super smart, and you had the _best_ ideas for pranks.”

A small smile spreads across Remus’s face, that rare, proud one, and Sirius has to fight the urge to kiss it.

Then, Harry frowns. “Also, I’ve seen him before.”

Sirius looks at Harry, confused. “In photographs, right?” He doesn’t have many of Remus with him anymore, but he’s definitely shown Harry one or two pictures of him, ones taken right after they graduated from Hogwarts and wholeheartedly believed that they would change the world for the better. 

“No, I mean that I saw him back in Hong Kong. In person,” Harry says firmly. Sirius turns to look at Remus, who coughs.

“I had a small run-in with him back over the summer,” Remus confesses. “Though I wasn’t entirely sure if it was actually him at the time.”

Now, the pieces are clicking in his mind. “We left Hong Kong because Harry said he met someone in a park that called him Harry Potter, and I thought it was a Death Eater,” Sirius realizes. “But it was you all along. Fuck. Fuck, I wish I’d gone with him that day—”

“No use changing the past,” Remus says, with the tired air of someone who’s repeated that to himself far too many times. Then, he shivers. “You said something about going inside? Can we, er, continue that there?”

“Right, yeah.” Sirius presses his wand to the gate, murmuring a spell. He leads Remus into the warm kitchen, their morning pot of tea still lingering on the stove. Harry, demonstrating tact far beyond his years, takes his new picture book and leaves for a side room. Sirius takes the pot off the stove, determines that there’s still enough liquid left, and pours out two cups of dandelion tea.

“This is nice,” Remus says uncertainly as Sirius hands him a small cup, glancing around the room.

“Not because of anything I did,” Sirius snorts. “It’s all Wendy—right, you don’t know who she is. She’s our Secret Keeper here. You might run into her later. She’s fond of popping out of dark spaces to terrify and annoy you.”

“She sounds like a good friend,” Remus smiles. 

“You could say that,” Sirius says. He raises an eyebrow, and Remus shrugs. “Okay, I’ll ask, then—why are you here, and how did you find us?”

“I got your letters,” Remus says simply. He takes a sip of his tea, and internally, Sirius groans. Remus has always been too patient for his own good.

“When? Just now? I sent them months ago.”

“Back in December,” Remus clarifies. “I didn’t know what to do with them at first, to be honest. But I read them—I read them all. God, Sirius, you wrote so many of them, and I—I read them. I swear, I read them, every last word. That’s how I got your address, by the way. It was on the front of the package.”

“Oh, fuck.” Sirius resists the urge to thunk his head down onto the table. “Merlin, I’m an idiot.”

“It’s a good thing you did, though,” Remus says wryly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have found you.”

“I didn’t exactly ask for us to be found.” Sirius crosses his arms over his chest and does not think about how much he wants to hug and snog Remus senseless, preferably at the same time.

“Well, if I couldn’t find you, then I couldn’t give you the good news,” Remus says.

“Merlin, Moony, can you stop being so mysterious and just tell me what’s going on? What good news?” Sirius rolls his eyes. “What, did the Sex Pistols get back together?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no necromancer’s resurrected Sid Vicious, so no, I don’t think so,” Remus replies. “But—” He rummages around in his knapsack for a moment, pulling out a thin piece of paper. “Here. Read this.”

Sirius takes it, scanning the document. The first thing he notices is the official Ministry seal, bright red at the top right corner. He reads it once, and then again, barely able to believe what he’s seeing.

_P. Pettigrew discovered alive, put on trial for aiding and abetting in the murder of James and Lily Potter….guilty on all charges….R. Lupin awarded an Order of Merlin, Third Class, for his services to the Ministry of Magic….S. Black cleared of all charges and accusations….extradition order revoked….Minister Bagnold sincerely apologizes for any trouble caused…._

“You caught him?” Sirius looks up at Remus, who nods. “How?”

“Dumbledore offered me a job at Hogwarts, back in the spring,” Remus starts.

“Not Defence,” Sirius cuts in, his mind filling with terrible images of Remus losing an arm and a leg or, even worse, coming just short of being killed entirely—all things he remembers happening to past Defence professors. Thankfully, Remus shakes his head.

“Ancient Runes,” he clarifies. “Professor Babbling went on leave, and Dumbledore offered the job to me. It was an exceedingly grateful offer—the pay is steady, and the job is wonderful, of course.”

“Good. You deserve it,” Sirius says. Remus would be a fantastic teacher—always has been, the one who took the best, most organized notes and would explain a concept, no matter how simple, patiently and clearly, over and over again until you got it. “But—what does that have to do with Peter?”

“Bill Weasley was—is—in my class,” Remus explains. “He’s one of my brightest students—he had his heart set on becoming a Curse-Breaker, but I’m trying my best to show him that there’s other paths too.”

“Are you going to sway another person to the dark side of academia?” Sirius asks, and Remus rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think I swayed you or James at all, actually, and there’s nothing remotely dark about academia,” he says. “But no, I don’t think he’s interested in that, at least not yet. His mother—Molly, you should remember her—invited me over to their home for Christmas dinner, as a thank you for helping out Bill—”

“You don’t even celebrate Christmas.”

“Well, no, but Molly’s cooking is good, and I needed something to take my mind off of things.” Remus gives Sirius a knowing glance, and Sirius winces. “Well, it turns out that Peter was hiding there, at the Burrow, and living as a pet. I happened to notice him, managed to catch him, brought him to Dumbledore, and, well. You know the rest. I’m sorry for not coming sooner—the trial took much longer than I thought it would, and then classes started up again, and it was hell trying to find time that I could take off. But I’m here now.”

“And now you have an Order of Merlin,” Sirius says, unable to keep a note of pride from seeping into his voice. “My Moony, a hero.”

“Barely,” Remus says, shrugging. “I just did what anyone else would.”

“But no one else had,” Sirius replies. “You did.”

“Oh, and you’re free to go back to Britain with Harry—that is, if you want to,” Remus adds. “They cleared you of the kidnapping charges too, after Dumbledore told Bagnold that legally, you _are_ Harry’s godfather and his guardian. I think he felt guilty about getting it all so wrong.”

“He should feel guilty,” Sirius says grimly. “He let Peter roam free, that dirty little rat.”

“Well, he couldn’t have known,” Remus says simply. “And all’s well that ends well.”

They fall into an uneasy silence, and Sirius feels his left leg shake nervously under the tablee. Is this it, then? Is this all Remus came to do—tell Sirius that he’s free, now, from suspicion and fear, and then he’s going to just leave? He aches to reach for Remus’s hand, to trace the contours of his face—too thin, now, and Remus always needed to eat more—but Sirius lost that right six years ago. Finally, after what seeems like an eternity, Remus breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you sooner,” he says. “The day after—the day after Halloween, I went to see Dumbledore, and I read that note you wrote, about switching with Peter. And I—I thought it could be true, maybe, but everyone else was convinced that you were guilty. But that’s my fault for believing them over you.”

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s not your fault,” he says softly. “I’m sorry for—for not writing sooner. I should have just sent the first letter when I wrote it. Maybe then—maybe then we could have worked this all out, years ago. It just—it got so hard, you know? And the letters just kept piling up, and I kept telling myself that the next one would be the one that I’d finally send, and it never was.” He laughs bitterly. “I’m not much of a Gryffindor, am I.”

“You are,” Remus says firmly. “And even if you _had_ sent them back then, I’m not sure if I would have believed you. I wasn’t teaching then, remember? I didn’t know Peter was still alive.”

“How _is_ he still alive?” Sirius asks curiously. “I mean, I thought he was—it wasn’t like Peter to just up and disappear—but how’d he do it?”

“He faked his own death,” Remus says. “He thought Bellatrix and Crouch were coming after him, apparently, and he decided that it’d be better to make them think he was dead already. Splattered his own blood across his flat’s walls and everything.”

“Of course he would,” Sirius scoffs. “The fucking coward.”

“Well, at least one good thing came out of it.”

“What?” Sirius asks, curious, and Remus rolls his eyes, giving him a pointed look. 

“For someone so smart, you can be incredibly thick,” Remus sighs, and Sirius kicks him gently under the table.

“I resent that,” he grumbles.

“You love it,” Remus counters, and then freezes. “I mean—”

“And I’m sorry for leaving,” Sirius says, the words coming out in a rush. “I’m the most sorry for that. If we had just talked it out—if I hadn’t left—none of this would have happened.”

“No, I’m sorry for not telling you about my missions—Dumbledore was sending me to the werewolves. He thought I could get through to them, maybe, but I couldn’t tell anyone else about what I was doing—he thought it’d be too dangerous.”

“I’m sorry for not even asking you where you were going.”

“I’m sorry for thinking that you were the spy.”

“I’m sorry for thinking that _you_ were the spy.”

“I’m sorry for not talking to you more.”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“I’m sorry for yelling back.”

“I’m sorry for not washing the dishes,” Sirius says, and Remus laughs.

“I think that’s enough apologizing for now,” Remus replies.

“I could apologize to you for years,” Sirius says sincerely. “I should.”

“Well, I should too, then,” Remus says. “But—I think that’s enough, at least for now.”

“For now,” Sirius echoes, and takes a sip from his now-cold tea. “So, how long are you here for?”

“I took a week off for now,” Remus says. “But if you needed me to, I’m sure I could convince Dumbledore to let me take a longer leave of absence.”

Sirius shakes his head. “I don’t want to force you to stay here, if you don’t want to.”

Remus leans forward, his eyes steely. “I want to. I’m here as long as you want me to stay.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do,” Remus says softly. Then, gently, he reaches for Sirius’s hand, and Sirius lets him clasp their fingers together, folding in like the leaves of a lotus. “Are you going to go back to Britain soon?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure,” Sirius confesses. “I mean, I don’t want to stay in Beijing much longer—did you know what the Communists did here?” Remus nods, and Sirius sighs. “Of course you did. I’m the only one who didn’t, probably. So not much more time in Beijing, but—I’d like to go back to Hong Kong, at least for a little bit, and I know Harry also wants to. He misses his friend Lucas a lot, and they never really got to say a proper goodbye.”

“I’ll go with you, then,” Remus says, and squeezes his hand. “I’ll go anywhere you want to go.”

“And I’ll go with you too.” And for the first time in months, maybe even years, Sirius feels his heart settle again. 

He can already see the golden future spreading ahead of him—a few more days in Beijing, so he and Harry can show Remus how beautiful the city can be, especially at this time of year, and then off to Hong Kong. He’ll introduce Remus to Jinjing and call him his best friend, but he and Remus will know the full truth. They’ll walk down Aberdeen Promenade with Harry and feed the geese together, and he’ll bring Remus to Ocean Park and take him to the top of the Ferris Wheel. When they go back to Britain, they’ll buy a nice flat in Chelsea, somewhere near the water, and when Harry turns eleven, he’ll take the train from King’s Cross to Hogwarts, and he and Remus will wave tearful goodbyes to Harry from the train platform.

And right now, Remus is sitting across from him at the kitchen table, wearing an unfairly attractive pea-green cardigan, his hair sticking up in the back like it always does. When Remus leans forward to rest his head on his hand, Sirius takes the chance to cautiously, slowly press a soft kiss to his lips, and he can just about feel Remus smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter left! if you liked this, feel free to check out my other wip, a moony has spawned in the server!
> 
> kudos + comments fuel me! <3


	12. Epilogue: London, 1991

**London, Britain, September 1991**

On the morning of September first, Sirius is already awake when the sun rises. He barely got a wink of sleep the night before, really, too busy tossing and turning and worrying about how Harry would fare at Hogwarts. 

By his side, Remus grunts, rolling over, and Sirius smiles softly. Remus came back down to Chelsea from Hogwarts a week ago, ostensibly because he’d prefer to spend the full moon back at home, but Sirius knows that it’s also so he can see Harry off to Hogwarts in person. 

It doesn’t feel like a decade has passed since he ran away with Harry, away from the wreckage of the cottage in Godric’s Hollow, with only the barest hint of a plan in his mind and desperation thrumming in his veins. The years have gone by far too quickly, weeks and months blending into each other until it was late July and a Hogwarts letter was being dropped by an owl onto the breakfast table.

He, Remus, and Harry had found their way back to Britain—together, at last—only three years ago, after a week in Hong Kong turned into a month turned into years. But they’d made it to London, finally, in the spring of ’88, taking an International Portkey to the Ministry of Magic, where they were met by Dumbledore, as wizened and eccentric as ever in buttercup-yellow robes.

Dumbledore had suggested, briefly, that they raise Harry in Grimmauld Place. Remus had answered before Sirius could even open his mouth.

“No,” Remus had said firmly. “We’re not going to bring Harry up in that fucking—sorry, Headmaster—house of horrors.” Sirius had squeezed Remus’s hand softly, once, twice, because he knew that Remus was saying that more for Sirius’s benefit than Harry’s—Harry could be happy anywhere, be it an abandoned butcher’s shop in SoHo or a sprawling mansion in Devon, but Sirius would rather die than spend a minute more in his childhood home.

After nearly an hour of arguments cloaked in deliberately controlled words, Dumbledore had agreed, but not before informing Remus and Sirius of the precautions they would have to take instead—the Fidelius, of course, identification wards, and, most insistently, not bringing Harry into Diagon Alley before he turned eleven and minimizing his contact with the magical world in general. 

Sirius had managed to wrangle the last clause into allowing Harry to make at least a few wizarding friends, which Dumbledore had reluctantly permitted. And then they were free—free to begin a life together in Britain, without the constant fear of being recognized or captured. 

Their home in Chelsea is perhaps a bit too large to be called modest, but Sirius loves it, from the large bay windows that look out onto the streets and shine in the sun to the cozy, red-accented bedroom he shares with Remus. The Thames is a five-minute walk away, its muddy waters strangely soothing. There are enough convenience and grocery stores nearby. Some weeks, the Weasleys come over, usually with Neville Longbottom in tow, their laughter mingling with Harry’s and filling the townhouse to the brim. Most days are happy.

There are days that aren’t so blissful, of course. They come when auburn leaves begin falling from the trees and Sirius is reminded of the last time he saw James and Lily, the autumn breeze blowing gently in the air. They come in the dead of winter, when everything seems grey and hopeless and Lily’s birthday is right around the corner, and Sirius remembers the way she hummed under her breath, always in tune, while reading a particularly engrossing book. They come when the dew melts on the grass and March turns to April, when he does his best to make a passable trifle and wish a silent happy birthday to James. They come, sometimes, in the heat of summer, when he realizes that Harry is another year older and yet another year removed from the lives of James and Lily.

But he and Remus can get through these days, now. They allow themselves to grieve, and then time churns on, as it always does. 

And it does now too, as their alarm begins to ring at seven in the morning—the earliest time Remus had allowed Sirius to set, stating, “While you might think, Padfoot, that it’s perfectly socially acceptable to bring Harry to King’s Cross at four in the morning, I assure you, no one else will feel the same way.” 

Remus buries his head in the pillow. “Ten more minutes,” he groans, his voice muffled by the cloth. 

Sirius rolls his eyes fondly. “Just ten more?”

Remus moves his head stiffly in an imitation of a nod. More than five years of teaching still haven’t made Remus a morning person—though considering that seven years at Hogwarts couldn’t do that either, it seems likely that Remus is simply doomed to always wake up five minutes after he should.

“All right,” Sirius says, lifting himself up from the bed and draping the covers over Remus. “If you’re not up in ten minutes, though, I’m going to cast an Amplifying Charm on that alarm.”

Remus does his best to drag Sirius back into bed. It’s not very effective, given that Remus is cocooned in a mass of blankets and Sirius is already mostly on the bedroom floor. 

He dresses quickly—one of those polo shirts that Remus says makes him look “inconspicuous,” a pair of faded jeans, and, for old time’s sake, his Gryffindor scarf, even though the weather outside is light and balmy—and then heads downstairs. 

Harry’s already at the kitchen table, pretending to read  _ The Daily Prophet.  _ He smiles weakly when he sees Sirius. “Hi,” he says, setting down the paper.

“Hi yourself. How long have you been up?”

“Not long,” Harry says, his tone not quite convincing. Sirius cocks an eyebrow, and Harry sighs. “Since three in the morning,” he admits. 

“You excited for Hogwarts?” Sirius summons a package of bacon and three eggs from the refrigerator, cracking the eggs open easily and placing the bacon into a frying pan. 

“Of course!” Something about his voice sounds falsely cheerful, though, and Sirius turns to look at him.

“Are you sure? What’s wrong?” he asks, moving the eggs around the saucepan with a spatula. 

“I’m just nervous, that’s all,” Harry admits, worrying at his bottom lip. “Do you think I’ll be in Gryffindor?”

“Of course. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Sirius says easily. “But even if you’re not, that’s okay, all right? Remus and I will be proud of you no matter what house you’re sorted in.”

“Even if I’m in Slytherin?”

“Even if you’re in Slytherin,” Sirius confirms. He flips the eggs and bacon onto three plates, setting one in front of Harry. “Harry, remember when we visited the Tonks?”

Harry scrunches up his face in thought. “They live in Bristol, right?”

“Right. And you remember Aunt Andromeda?” Harry nods. “Well, she was a Slytherin, and that didn’t change the fact that she’s a good person. Look, I think you’ll be in Gryffindor because you’re brave as fuck—don’t tell Moony I said that—and just as fearless as your mum and dad, but even if you’re not in Gryffindor, that doesn’t change who you are. You’re still going to be Harry, all right?” He ruffles Harry’s hair, and Harry pushes him away gently, rolling his eyes.

“I’m too old for that,” Harry protests, but his smile looks more genuine now. He still has an air of restlessness around him, though. 

“Is there anything else you’re worried about?”

“Er, no,” Harry says, furrowing his brow in the way he always does when he’s not quite telling the truth. He smashes his sunny-side egg up into bits with the prongs of his fork. Sirius pretends not to notice it—getting Harry to eat eggs has always been a lost cause.

“Anything at all?”

“What if no one likes me? Or what if people stare at me and only like me because I’m the Boy-Who-Lived or something, and they don’t actually want to be my friend? What if I’m in Gryffindor but I’m all alone anyhow, and I never make any friends at all and I’m miserable for seven whole years?” The words spill out of Harry in a rush, and he breathes heavily once they’re out. 

Sirius winces. When they’d visited Diagon Alley two weeks ago for the first time, it had been, to say the least, a bit of a disaster. He hadn’t counted on Harry being recognized so easily or so quickly. They’d barely stepped a foot into the Leaky Cauldron before being crowded by strangers, all jostling to greet Harry. Things hadn’t gotten better once they found their way into the alley proper and were immediately caught up in a crowd and nearly separated—apparently, there was a Gilderoy Lockhart book signing Sirius had managed to forget about. 

For the first time in a long while, he wonders if it was a mistake explaining to Harry what exactly it meant to be the savior of the wizarding world—all the perks and downfalls that came with it. But then he reminds himself that it would be even worse if Harry didn’t have a clue at all. Better to be prepared than caught off-guard, after all. 

“That won’t happen,” Sirius says firmly. “There’s no reason for anyone not to like you—and if anyone does, write me a letter with their name and I’ll send a strongly-worded Howler to their mum, all right?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

“A strongly-worded letter, then. I’ll save them some embarrassment. And even if that does happen, you’ve still got Ron and Neville, right?”

“What if they like someone else more than me?” Harry asks, cutting his bacon into ever-smaller pieces. 

“They won’t. Look, Harry, you probably know your friends better than I do, but from what I can tell, they’d stick with you through thick and thin, all right? They went with you to that train convention, remember?”

“We said we wouldn’t talk about that anymore!” Harry exclaims. “Come on!”

The train convention in question hadn’t been a very pleasant experience for anyone. In the span of ten hours, they were treated to a series of dull speeches and presentations about electrical wiring and steel paneling. Everyone besides Sirius had dozed off by the sixth hour—Remus had nearly stayed awake for six before falling gracelessly asleep in the middle of a speech concerning the best wheel shape for a steam-powered train—and Sirius had only stayed awake in the hopes that things would improve. (They didn’t.)

“But they were still friends with you after that, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Sirius says. “Nothing at Hogwarts could be worse than that train convention. Look, there might be—there will be—ups and downs, especially in the first few days, but things will get better. They always do.”

Finally, Harry brightens, and he begins to devour his bacon with gusto. A few minutes later, Remus finds his way downstairs, his hair sticking up in every direction and his mouth open in a yawn. His tie is lopsided, and the collar of his shirt is popped. He looks wonderful. 

“What time is it?” Remus asks blearily, yawning again.

“Ten o’clock,” Sirius deadpans. Remus’s face goes through a cycle of panic, realization, and gentle annoyance. 

“Berk,” he retorts, sliding into the seat next to Sirius. “Harry, are you all packed?”

“I was packed ages ago,” Harry says. In the span of five minutes, he’s managed to devour his bacon completely, and now he’s bouncing impatiently in his seat. “When’re we leaving?”

“After Remus finishes breakfast, we’ll head off for King’s Cross,” Sirius replies. 

Twenty minutes later, they find themselves in front of the barrier leading to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, staring at the brick wall. 

“Ready?” Sirius asks Harry.

Harry nods. “I’m ready.” He pushes his cart into the wall, and moments later, Sirius and Remus follow him through.

“Are you sure you don’t want Remus to go with you on the train?” Sirius asks, suddenly worried. What if Harry gets ambushed on the train somehow, or he gets into a fight, or he has a very tense encounter with the Trolley witch?

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says. “I promise. I’ll see him at Hogwarts anyway. Besides, weren’t you the one who told me the other day that Hogwarts is all about independence?”

“He’s got you there,” Remus smiles. 

“Harry!” A shout cuts through the air, and Sirius turns around to find the Weasleys, Ron Weasley waving so frantically to Harry from the other end of the platform that Sirius fears his arm might fall off from sheer enthusiasm. 

“Ron!” Harry’s shout is just as animated, and his worries of the early morning seem to have dissipated completely. Harry glances at Sirius and Remus, and Sirius gives him a slight nod. 

“Yes, you can go say hi,” Sirius says. “But you know you’re not leaving without a hug.”

“I know,” Harry says, looking more fond than exasperated. Then, he takes off in a sprint, running wildly towards the Weasleys.

Sirius feels Remus’s hand snake around his waist, the touch warm and comforting. “He’ll be fine,” Remus says softly. “You’ve done well.”

“We’ve done well,” Sirius corrects. Looking at his surroundings—the crowded platform, the shining Hogwarts Express, Remus by his side, and Harry and the Weasleys, just down the platform, beckoning for him and Remus to join them—he thinks that he finally believes it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's done!!
> 
> this is the first multi-chapter fic i've finished in so long. thank you for sticking with me through it, and i hope it was an enjoyable read. <3
> 
> come find me on tumblr at alifeincoffeespoons.tumblr.com! if you're interested in reading more of my writing, check out my current wip, a moony has spawned in the server—it's a slow-burn modern au with a lot of humor and friendship. 
> 
> if you enjoyed this fic, please leave kudos and/or comments! <3 i'd be happy to talk more about what i think the future of this au looks like in the comments.


End file.
